From an Infant to an Ice Queen
by TsubameTrebleClef
Summary: As a child, she's almost kidnapped by strangers and disowned by her family. She thinks she's seen it all, but circumstances make headstrong Olivier realise that the transition from a normal lass to a ruthless soldier doesn't happen overnight. Backstory . . . ish.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Fullmetal Alchemist**_** – Arakawa-sensei is the mastermind.**

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Chapter One

Mrs Armstrong had her first child on a very cold, wet and windy morning. The process – which took place in a spacious, luxurious room with the curtains aflutter and the rain pounding against the window – went quite smoothly despite the weather, and the baby was born without a hitch. When the happy couple took a first look at the newborn, however, they got quite a surprise.

"Oho," said Mr Armstrong. "A girl!"

"Such a tiny girl too," remarked Mrs Armstrong, peering into the depths of the bundle of sheets in her arms. "This is a first, isn't it? Up until now, the first child of each generation of the Armstrong family has been a boy."

"Indeed," said Mr Armstrong thoughtfully. "Will a woman be able to lead the family when my time is up?"

"I'm sure she will." Mrs Armstrong tweaked the baby's cheek. "To make sure, we shall give her a boy's name, though not one that sounds too masculine. What do you think?"

"A boy's name, hmm? Bert, perhaps? We could call her Bertie to soften it."

Mrs Armstrong looked at her daughter, who was wriggling about and trying to loosen the sheets around her. "No, I think not."

"Francis, with an 'i'?"

"No, no. It will be misspelled by others, no doubt, and in time we will have to change it to Frances with an 'e'."

"True. Then perhaps . . . Oliver?"

Mrs Armstrong frowned. "That's not quite right. Perhaps something between Oliver and Olivia. . ."

Mr Armstrong chuckled. "My, you're awfully finicky today, aren't you, honey?" He thought for a moment. "Something between the two . . . Olivier? It has a bit of a foreign sound to it."

The baby suddenly stopped struggling and blinked her big blue eyes up at her mother, as though pleading for something.

"Yes," decided Mrs Armstrong. "It's perfect. A strong and appealing name, well suited to the heiress of the Armstrong estate. Though of course, that may change if I have a boy next."

They proceeded to decide that the child's middle name should be 'Mira', an alteration of her mother's name, Myra.

So Olivier Mira Armstrong was named, and within a year proved her parents wrong in thinking that she would not be a suitable heiress. She would not cry over small things, as most babies do, could walk and talk better than the average toddler by the time she was ten months old, and on her first birthday tore the frilly pink dress her mother had bought especially for her to shreds.

"She's a true tomboy, this one," said Mrs Armstrong.

In the next few years, it seemed that Olivier would indeed be the one to inherit the grand Armstrong mansion, as Mrs Armstrong's next two children were both girls. Amue and Strongine looked like a pair of hobgoblins next to their older sister, despite the fact that Olivier was not picture-perfect herself. They were twice the size of her and apparently took pride in being so, as they frequently attempted to bully her.

But Olivier was not to be beaten so early in her life, for despite her appearance, she was much stronger than either of them. Whenever they decided to torment her, she would whack them repeatedly over the head with a saucepan until they cried for mercy.

Things changed, however, after Olivier turned five. Mrs Armstrong was expecting another baby. After months of anticipation, she and her husband were presented with what they had really wanted – a boy, to whom they gave the name Alex Louis. He was a perfectly normal child, though a little big for his age, with blond hair and blue eyes, like all the Armstrong children.

Olivier didn't seem too happy with this. Alex always copied her, from her choice of food to the way her bangs curled at the ends. She gave him the saucepan treatment, but it only made her brother admire her more, and once or twice Mrs Armstrong caught her red-handed and punished her heavily.

Meanwhile, while the children were growing up, innocently oblivious to the adults' pressing matters, Mr and Mrs Armstrong were busy mulling over who was to be the future head of the family.

"I think Olivier should be fine," said Mrs Armstrong complacently one sunny day, as she sat watching her children playing out in the back garden. "After all, we named her so carefully for this purpose, didn't we?"

"Yes, yes," said Mr Armstrong. "But we have one problem – Alex is the first boy to be born into this generation, so shouldn't he be the one to receive the 'special training'?"

Mrs Armstrong frowned. "Perhaps, but he seems such a normal lad. I believe Olivier would learn what is needed more quickly."

"Well, we shall see," said Mr Armstrong. "It is too early to decide, surely."

So they watched and waited. As the years passed, Olivier grew into a pale and slender creature, whose appearance was dangerously deceptive. She looked the perfect little angel, with her long blond hair and sapphire eyes rimmed with long lashes. The only trait that deemed her any less than an angel was her rather thick and full lips. Throwing aside her appearance, however, she had a fiery temper and was feared by all her tutors (the Armstrong children were educated privately). Though she was very bright, she often tried her parents' patience with her defiance and stubbornness.

"Olivier," her mother would often say, "For the last time, do _not_ go up to the top floor to avoid your music lesson."

But Olivier loved exploring the mansion (and despised the fine art of piano playing). It had four floors and about a hundred rooms, most of which Olivier hadn't ever been in. When she felt like disobeying her parents, she would bolt up three sets of winding staircases, wander around the top floor, climb up onto the roof if she felt daring enough, and stroll back down to the ground floor at her leisure, stopping to peer inside rooms, rattle doorknobs and look at paintings and tapestries hanging on the walls.

Alex, however, was too much of a good boy, and despite having deep admiration towards his sister, he never had the heart to disobey his parents in any way. Physically, he was almost as huge as Amue or Strongine.

Seeing the pros and cons of handing down the Armstrong mansion to each of them, Mr and Mrs Armstrong decided to teach them both the battle techniques that had existed in the Armstrong family for generations.

One scorching July day, Mr Armstrong was taking leave from work to spend some time polishing his eldest daughter and son's skills.

"Olivier, Alex," he said. "Spar with each other, if you please."

Olivier rolled her eyes. "Alex has just learnt how to walk. How is he supposed to fight against me?"

"I'm four years old now," Alex complained. "And I'm taller than you, Sis."

"That's right," said Mr Armstrong. "Please don't exaggerate, Olivier. Now begin."

Olivier crossed her arms over her chest and pinched her lips together. "No."

"Now, now," Mr Armstrong sounded amused, "this won't do. Then, how about this – if you agree to the fight, I'll show you both something interesting, regardless of who wins."

In spite of herself, Olivier was curious. "But that's not fair, Father," she said scornfully. "Why should you show Alex too, when it's so obvious that he's going to lose?"

Mr Armstrong chuckled. "Why, you ask? Simple – it is something we have inherited from our ancestors."

This was too much – Olivier was very proud of the Armstrong lineage, and couldn't bear to miss out on such a golden opportunity. She charged at Alex and as expected, flattened him within minutes. As he lay on the ground sobbing, she turned to her father.

"What is it you're going to show us?"

"Patience, patience," said Mr Armstrong. "Before I show you anything, would you mind apologizing to your brother for hitting him so hard?"

"Yes, I would mind," said Olivier promptly. "You never told me to go easy on him."

"Fine by me," said Mr Armstrong. "The deal is off."

As he started to walk away, Olivier immediately yelled, "I'm sorry you're such a wimp, Alex!" up at the sky.

Alex cried harder. "I'm not a wimp!"

Mr Armstrong looked at her daughter sternly. "Apologize properly."

Olivier shot a defiant look at her father, tossed her mop of blond hair behind her and strolled up to her brother. "I – am – sorry!"

"That's better," said Mr Armstrong in a satisfied voice. "Now follow me."

He led them into the house and up numerous staircases, stopping at the third door along the corridor on the second floor. He touched the doorknob lightly, and it made a fizzing noise and flashed brightly before clicking open.

"Alchemy!" said Olivier, her eyes gleaming. "When are we learning that, Father?"

"When you have mastered everything else." Mr Armstrong stepped into the room and indicated that Olivier and Alex should follow.

It was only a small room, but a spectacular one. It was dimly lit by a crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling, and mounted on the walls were row upon row of glass cases that held objects that were no doubt Armstrong relics from long ago. The carpet was a deep emerald green, and printed on it was the Armstrong family tree. Olivier walked slowly across it, intrigued by the many blond-haired, blue-eyed faces looking up at her. Near the bottom were two familiar ones, with the names Philip and Myra under them.

"Now," said Mr Armstrong, snapping her out of her reverie, "Here we are." He strode across to the centre of the back wall and reached out to touch one of the glass cases. "The Armstrong sword."

The siblings stared up at it. It had a magnificent steel handle and blade with some sort of pattern engraved on it, and next to it hung the polished sheath.

"I have used it in the past," continued Mr Armstrong, "but swords have never been my strong suit. However," he paused, "one of you may well be the worthy owner of it."

"Really?" whispered Alex, who seemed quite overwhelmed.

Olivier tutted impatiently. "If you don't improve, you'll never get your hands on it. But if you do," she turned and looked daggers at him, "I won't lose to you."

Alex looked shocked for a moment, before clenching his fists and yelling, "I won't lose either!"

"That's the spirit," said Mr Armstrong. "Now, I shall fetch Amue and Strongine. There is something that needs to be done. Wait here, please."

While he was gone, Olivier strolled around the room, peering into the glass cases. There were intricately decorated glass vases and porcelain plates, expensive jewellery and refined silk dresses, as well as gleaming daggers and shiny armour. Olivier couldn't care less about the overly feminine items, but her fingers itched to touch the swords and knives, to slice through something with the perfect blades.

She stared at these for so long that she didn't notice that her father had returned with her sisters at his heels until he tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

"Please stand over there, Olivier," he said, gesturing towards the carpet that held the bottom of the family tree.

Olivier obeyed.

Amue looked very excited, and Strongine extremely bored.

"What is it that we're doing, Father?" asked Amue, batting her eyelashes. She always carried herself like a gracious lady, but had neither the looks nor brains to be one. This annoyed Olivier so much that she often had to leave the room for a short while to restrain herself from kicking Amue in the mouth to wipe the simpering smile off her face and to smudge her lipstick.

"You'll see," said Mr Armstrong.

"I'm hungry," grumbled Strongine. She, on the other hand, didn't care about being a lady at all. In fact, she didn't care much about anything, and spent every single day eating, sleeping and lounging about.

"Shut up," said Olivier crossly. "Well, whatever it is, hurry up with it, Father."

Mr Armstrong was perusing the family tree, frowning slightly. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "I may have to shrink it a little in order for you all to fit." He cracked his knuckles. "Now, watching closely, all of you."

He bent down and placed his hands on the carpet. At once the sensation of alchemy started again, and Olivier watched in amazement as the whole family tree shrunk, leaving adequate space for the next generation, and at her feet appeared four faces: her own, Amue's, Strongine's, and finally Alex's. Swirly letters materialised under them, as though an invisible hand was writing their names on a page of Armstrong history.

When the commotion died down, all four children were speechless for a moment. Then Alex cried, "I love my family!"

Olivier stomped on his foot, wishing he wouldn't be so sentimental, but though she didn't know it, she felt exactly the same as her brother at that moment – prouder than ever to be an Armstrong.

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**Thanks for reading! **

**So let me explain: I really, really love backstory – I just love thinking about why characters are the way they are, and what sorts of things shaped their identities. One day I began thinking about Olivier's past, and I thought about it so much that I couldn't help but write it down. **

**I wanted to make the kid-Olivier's character different from that of the adult Olivier (well, this chapter doesn't really show that much, but there'll be more in future), but still recognisable as Olivier. So . . . I hope that turned out OK!**

**Until next chapter! **

**TsubameTrebleClef ^_^**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

On the outskirts of Central City was a dense forest, and separating the two was a river that ran in an almost perfect circle around the city. Olivier often liked to escape the hustle and bustle of the city by running flat out for ten minutes or so over two miles just to get to this place by mid-afternoon. Then she would lie on the bank and watch the first stars appear before heading back home. Her parents didn't mind much, but over time she stayed out longer and longer, and they began to get worried for her safety.

"Mother and Father don't like me much, do they?" she asked the maid who cleaned her room one night.

The maid, who everyone called 'Posy' because of her love of everything flowery, was a plump, round-faced woman of about thirty. She had blond hair, slightly tanned skin (though it looked much darker when compared with Olivier's complexion) and an affable personality.

When Olivier asked this slightly strange question, Posy stopped scrubbing the window and turned, grinning good-naturedly. "What makes you think that, Miss Olivier?"

Olivier scowled and hopped onto her bed. "They never reprimand Alex or Amue or Strongine, unless they do something really bad. It's always me." She imitated her mother's voice. "'_Stop that at once, Olivier!' 'Get down from there, Olivier!' 'If you do that one more time, Olivier, you'll get a hiding!'"_

Posy laughed. "Well, you ain't the type to do what people say, that's for sure. It's no wonder the missus gets fair mad sometimes."

Olivier flopped face down onto her pillow. "It's not my fault Alex is such a goody two-shoes," she muttered.

"You ain't jealous, surely," said Posy, turning back to the window. When Olivier didn't answer, she said, "Tell you what, Miss – it should be the other way around. I've seen you fighting and all, and what's your brother compared to you?"

"He's five years younger than me," said Olivier, not raising her head off the pillow.

"Miss Amue's far too vain to be any good," continued Posy, acting as though Olivier hadn't spoken, "and Miss Strongine's the laziest lass I've seen in my time – not that I'm supposed to be speaking ill of anyone in this household," she added quickly.

Olivier gave a short little laugh. "Like I'm going to spill the beans on you."

"Thanks, Miss," said Posy jokingly. "But really, I don't think you're a bad lass, not me. You're real naughty, though, especially going out at night like that. It's dangerous, with all the muggers and that."

"Yeah, sure it is," said Olivier sarcastically.

But she shouldn't have been so sure of herself, especially when what Posy had said turned out to be true. On a clear afternoon, she was once again relaxing on the bank of the river, when she heard sudden footsteps behind her. Being the skilled fighter she was, she leapt to her feet and found herself face to face with three huge men, who looked over six feet tall.

"Hello, little girl," said one, advancing on her and looking increasingly menacing. "Got anything valuable on you?"

"Do you really think I do?" said Olivier. She was wearing a rather tight dress that was, in her opinion, obviously devoid of anything that was worth something, and anyone who thought otherwise was an idiot.

"Maybe," said the man. "So do we need to resort to violence?"

Olivier turned out her pockets. "I'd rather you don't. See? Nothing. Now can you go away?"

The second man suddenly came forward. "Hey, wait a moment," he said, "Apparently there's a filthy rich family in the city called Armstrong, and all of them have blond hair and blue eyes. Might you be one of them?"

"And what if I am?" retorted Olivier, angered by the man calling her family 'filthy rich'.

The man laughed outright. "So you _are _one of them! Well, thanks for the information – now, would you mind coming with us?"

"Why would I do that? Do you think I'm stupid?"

He laughed again. "Well, well. Rich children really are hilarious."

"Stop wasting time," growled the third man suddenly. He turned to Olivier. "Are you going to or not, kid? Or do I have to beat it out of you?"

Olivier smirked. "Bring it on then."

The man looked outraged. "You're telling me to waste my energy on someone like you?" He grabbed Olivier's hair. "Tell me where your family lives and let us milk them for a ransom! Now!"

"No!" Olivier kicked the man hard in the unmentionables. He yelled out and let go of her hair, doubling up in pain. Taking this chance, Olivier sprinted as fast as she could across the grass and into the city.

She may have gotten a head start, but she was only nine and her legs were considerably shorter than those of the three men. Soon they were almost on top of her. She felt a pair of strong hands grab her, and for the first time since the men had pestered her, she felt scared.

"Let go!" she yelled, kicking out blindly behind her. She must have gotten one of them in the stomach, for the grip on her loosened and she was able to keep running.

She weaved around buildings and vaulted over fences, and, realising that she was headed towards the Armstrong mansion, took a right turn into a dark alleyway, where she smashed headlong into something very solid.

Looking up, her fear increased tenfold. It was one of the muggers. Roaring in triumph, he tackled her to the ground and no matter how she struggled, it was impossible to move.

"Right then," he said, his hands pinning her down so hard that it hurt her shoulder blades, "Where is your family?"

"I'm not telling," she said through gritted teeth. The earth that had accumulated on top of the uneven ground felt dank and smelled musty.

The man punched her in the mouth and she tasted blood.

"I'm not telling," she repeated firmly, the blood running down her chin.

She braced herself as he raised his fist again, but just then a voice yelled, "What's going on?"

A man and a woman had just entered the alley. When they saw the scene, the woman screamed and the man's jaw dropped in horror.

Quick as lightning, the mugger pulled out a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at Olivier's head. "Come a step nearer and she dies."

The woman gasped and stumbled backwards. The man reached out and steadied her before she could lose her balance, and both of them gaped at Olivier like a pair of goldfish.

"Get away from here!" shouted Olivier. "Don't be such morons!"

"Damn right you are, girl," said the mugger. "Off with you!"

The man started to tug at the woman's sleeve like a frightened child, but she seemed to come to her senses and pushed him away. "I can't . . . I can't let this pass." Her voice was trembling, and Olivier saw her swallow uncomfortably. She reached for her handbag and fumbled for the clasp.

"What are you going to do?" the mugger snarled. "Better to run and not tell a soul."

The woman's hands were shaking as she rummaged through the contents of her handbag, the gun was pressing onto Olivier's head so hard she felt as though her skull would break, and the mugger was getting impatient.

"Hurry up and decide, woman!" he growled. "Or I'll –"

A gunshot sounded. The mugger gave a terrible scream and keeled over, clutching his arm. Olivier scrambled to her feet, but then a bullet hit her in the leg and she fell, landing heavily on her side and hitting her head. There was an almighty explosion; the sounds of rubble falling and glass shattering seemed to rumble through her body, and a fresh blow of agonizing pain shot up her right leg as something heavy fell and crushed it. She was enveloped in dust that found its way into her eyes and nose and mouth. Tiny stars exploded in her head. The last things she remembered before she passed out were the screams, and the dust, and the pain.

* * *

". . . has you to thank for your timely arrival, General Armstrong."

Olivier's head felt strangely clouded, and it was a few moments before she could register what she had heard.

"Yes, but never mind that. What needs to be done?"

It was her father's voice. Olivier tried to open her eyes, but her body felt completely stiff. She stayed still, listening, only vaguely aware of the now dulled pain in her leg.

The unfamiliar voice didn't reply. Olivier shouted inwardly, _Give way, stupid eyelids!_ – and after a painful internal struggle her eyelids succumbed to her orders.

She was in a small, enclosed room which smelled strongly of antiseptic. Everything was just white, white, white . . . whitewashed walls and a dim, white light fixture, a white-coated man and a white bed on which she lay as still as a doll . . . and her father. Her surroundings looked blurred and uncomfortably bright.

The man in the white coat stopped pacing and bent down to examine something at the end of the bed. Shaking his head, he said, "It looks awfully messy, Mr Armstrong. It would be much easier to amputate it. Then we wouldn't have to worry."

Silence ensued. Olivier's brain struggled to process the information. _It would be easier to amputate it . . . to amputate it . . ._

It clicked. A sudden panic ran through her body, and she forced her mouth open.

"No . . ." Her voice sounded dry and cracked.

"Olivier!" She saw her father's head jerk in her direction. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, but . . ." She swallowed painfully and recommenced, more firmly, "Don't cut it off. I won't let you, Father."

Her father's face swam above her. "I understand how you feel, Olivier, but –"

"Just don't, Father!" She clenched her fists and fixed her father with the defiant stare he was so used to.

He gave in. "You might die, Olivier," was all he said.

But she didn't die. Her leg had been crushed rather severely, but with the help of her father's morsel of medical alchemy, she recovered completely after a few weeks in hospital, and resumed her training, practising harder than ever.

One morning, while sparring with Alex again, she suddenly said, "Father? You fired the first shot, didn't you? And the mugger fired the second one and set off the bomb?"

Mr Armstrong raised his eyebrows. "You never suspected that I shot you, even by accident?"

Olivier stopped mid-punch, taken by surprise. No, of course she hadn't considered such a possibility. Her father was . . . well, he was a General, and . . . if he had really shot her, he would have told her so . . . wouldn't he?

Alex took advantage of Olivier's hesitation and kicked her in the stomach with all the strength he could muster. While he whooped in glee and Olivier coughed and spluttered, Mr Armstrong was looking at his daughter as though seeing her in a new light.

Later that day, Olivier bumped into Posy while running flat out down the third floor corridor.

"Goodness me, Miss!" the maid exclaimed. "Why are you in such a hurry?"

"I'm not," said Olivier. "I was bored, so I decided to run around the mansion."

"Well, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's plenty of space outside to run. Why stay inside? You'll end up breaking all the ornaments."

Olivier pulled a face. "It's not like I don't _want _to go outside. Father will give me a lecture and Mother will skin me alive if I do, after what happened. It's not worth it." She took off again without a backwards glance.

Mr Armstrong walked up to Posy. "Did something happen?"

"Oh, nothing bad, Master Armstrong," said Posy. "But just let me say this – you should be proud of your daughter. She's a good lass."

"Yes, she is," said Mr Armstrong, beaming.

"Sir?" said Posy. "May I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"You didn't fire that second shot, did you?"

"No. But Olivier didn't doubt me, even for a second. She does, however, need to think about her naivety if she is to get by in this world."

They never let on to her, but Mr and Mrs Armstrong always believed that this near-fatal experience hardened their little girl.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Olivier, having been born in Central City, had never before set foot beyond her hometown. This didn't bother her, as she spent day after day poking into every nook and cranny of the city, but as she grew older, she began to get bored of the monotony and wanted to travel. Central City consisted mainly of buildings, buildings and more buildings – she had been told that the East was a vast desert and that the West and South were rolling plains. But the North was what intrigued her most. The temperatures dropped dramatically up there, according to the stories she had heard, and a mountain range known as Briggs formed a natural barrier between Amestris and the bordering country of Drachma.

"Father," she announced one winter's day, "I want to go north."

"Indeed?" said Mr Armstrong, not looking up from his stack of paperwork.

Olivier was annoyed. Her father always worked, even when he wasn't at Central Command. He wouldn't even spare a few minutes to appreciate some fresh air on a nice day like this (though it didn't snow in Central City, it was sometimes bitterly cold in winter – but today was an exception).

"Father," she said, "Did you hear what I said?"

"Why yes, of course," Mr Armstrong replied, his pen flying across a sheet of paper. "You wish to go north. But that is a simple statement – it does not require an answer."

"Father!" Olivier said angrily. "Don't play games with me!"

The corner of Mr Armstrong's mouth twitched, though as the lower part of his face was covered with a very thick beard, this wasn't easy to notice.

"Well then," he said, making eye contact with his daughter at last, "I shall be serious. We will not be travelling until you are older, Olivier."

"Until I'm _older_? I'm twelve!"

"It is the Armstrong tradition," said Mr Armstrong. "Our ancestors always believed that travel at an early age served as a distraction to education."

Olivier frowned. "That's ridiculous. Who would believe that?"

"It is rational, to a certain extent."

"Well, if it's to a certain extent, then wouldn't you say I'm old enough?"

"We'll see about that. Nevertheless, let me make it very clear that we will not be travelling any time soon." Mr Armstrong waved her away. "Now, change into your new dress and do something about that hair of yours. Your tutor will be here shortly."

Olivier stormed off. It was so unfair – why didn't her parents let her do anything? She managed to get through the day without exploding, but that night wasted no time complaining to Posy.

"It – is – ab – so – lute –ly – preposterous!" she said, tugging at her disgusting hair ribbon with each syllable and finally succeeding in loosening it with the word 'preposterous'.

"My, my," said Posy, as she knelt on the hearth and stoked the fire. "You're really expanding your vocabulary, ain't you, Miss? 'Preposterous' – where did you learn such a word?"

"Don't treat me like a three year old," said Olivier crossly.

Posy laughed. "As you wish. Well then, would you mind telling me what's ailing you?"

Olivier set about trying to undo her incredibly tight plait. After a moment's silence, she said thoughtfully, "Posy, why does Father insist on turning me into a hermit?"

"Ah, so that's it," said Posy, smiling so that her round face looked even rounder than usual. "Though I have to say, that's a bit extreme, Miss Olivier. I seriously doubt that Master Armstrong would want any of his children to be 'hermits'. Not that I know what he's thinking."

Olivier scowled. "Adults are bizarre. I don't understand them at all."

"Why thank you," said Posy.

Olivier climbed into her bed and pulled the covers over her head. "I haven't the energy for insignificant exchanges. Goodnight."

Olivier's foul mood lingered over the next few days, but though she constantly kept her temper at simmering point, nothing too horrible happened to incense her. That is, until the following week.

She had just finished her lessons and was rushing down a flight of stairs with her hair loose and buttons undone, when she heard voices in the drawing room.

". . . is for you, Alex."

Olivier stopped, pivoted around and hopped lightly up the steps again. She peered carefully around the slightly ajar door.

Her parents and her brother were standing beside a huge cardboard box. Alex was craning his neck to see what was inside. "Really?" he was saying. "What is it?"

"What you asked for," said Mr Armstrong. "Your mother and I can see that you have a natural flair for portraiture."

Alex looked delighted. He reached inside the box and pulled out an easel, several canvases, paintbrushes, palettes and a tray of about fifty different paints.

"Oh, thank you!" he said, cradling the easel as though it was his dearest teddy bear. "Now I can paint whoever I like! I know, I'll paint Sis first!"

"Oh no you won't!" yelled Olivier, sending the door hurtling into the wall with one mighty kick and stomping into the room. She was shaking with anger. She should have known. It was _always _Alex. Alex got what he wanted as soon as he asked for it. But what about her? Her parents never thought of her, did they?

"Olivier!" said Mrs Armstrong, looking shocked. "Don't kick the door down!"

Olivier kicked it again. It hit the wall, rebounded and swung back at her. She stepped out of the way.

"Olivier!" Mrs Armstrong strode over to her. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"That's what I should be asking!" yelled Olivier, pushing her out of the way and marching towards her father. "Why do you always give Alex whatever he wants? I asked, didn't I? I asked _politely_, didn't I?"

"Calm yourself, Olivier," said Mr Armstrong. "There is quite a difference between leaving the city and buying a set of art tools –"

"No there isn't!"

Under normal circumstances, Olivier wouldn't have acted this way, but due to what her father had said the previous week, she simply wouldn't listen to reason anymore. She grabbed the nearest object – a stack of paper bound by string lying on the coffee table – and threw it into the fireplace.

If she was like anyone else she would have missed, as it is difficult to aim when blinded by anger, but being Olivier, the papers landed bang in the middle of the fireplace and the glowing flames began to lick the edges.

For a moment she felt a sort of satisfaction for letting go of her anger in this way, but caught a fleeting glimpse of the State Military emblem on the top page before it was consumed by the fire, and her satisfaction turned to horror.

She had just destroyed a very large portion of a general's documents.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Olivier stood there, shocked. Her feet felt glued to the floor. She kept her eyes on the pile of ash in the fireplace, feeling her father's, her mother's and her brother's eyes on her. Then she swallowed and turned.

Her mother had her hands over her mouth, and Alex was gaping at her like an idiot. Olivier slowly forced herself to look at her father.

Mr Armstrong had not yelled out or moved, but the look of blazing fury in his eyes was enough to make anyone cringe. "Olivier," he said quietly, "Kindly wait in the corridor, please."

She obeyed without a word. She felt as though her nerve cells had disappeared.

Once outside the door, she broke into a run, despite her father's instructions. Her head was spinning. She couldn't believe what she had done. She had just destroyed her father's most important papers. How could she be so idiotic?

She was out of breath by the time she reached her room. She slammed the door shut, leapt to her bed, ripped the hangings apart, grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room. It smacked into her wardrobe door and bounced off.

She sat on her bed for a few minutes, breathing hard. What was going to happen to her now? Mr Armstrong was a kind man, but very strict. The first step to getting out of trouble was apologizing, but to Olivier this was like pulling teeth. She hated showing emotion of any sort to her family, and every time she had been forced to apologize to someone, it had been very humiliating.

She stayed in her room for the rest of the afternoon. No one came to bother her. Towards evening, however, she started to feel hungry, and was just deciding whether or not to sneak into the kitchens and steal some food when someone knocked on her door.

"Miss Olivier," called Posy. "Would you like some dinner?"

"Only if Father doesn't kill me first," Olivier replied.

"He won't if I bring it up for you, will he?" said Posy.

"I don't deserve that," said Olivier, wondering why her maid was bothering to be nice to her after what she had done. "Leave me alone."

She heard Posy laugh from the other side of the door. When she spoke, however, her voice sounded serious. "You can't barricade yourself forever, Miss," she said. "But you can sort it out, can't you?"

Oliver raised her head and stared at the closed door. Maybe Posy was right. She got to her feet, crossed the room and opened the door. Posy was standing outside with her arms crossed. She grinned at the determined but slightly distrustful expression on Olivier's face.

"That's more like you, Miss," she said. "Well, you'd better go down, hadn't you? Your father's waiting." With a smile, she turned and walked off.

When Olivier entered the dining room, her father was sitting at the far end of the long table. Her mother sat beside him.

"Sit down," said Mr Armstrong, gesturing to the end opposite his seat.

Olivier sat and stared hard at a spot in the middle of the table. She could feel the thumping of her heart against her ribcage.

"So, Olivier," said Mr Armstrong, "Why did you burn my papers?"

This took her by surprise. Why? It was obvious, wasn't it? She hadn't meant to in the first place, she'd simply lost control of herself and hadn't realised what she was doing. She was about to say so, but suddenly realised that it would sound like a weak, childish excuse.

"Olivier," said Mr Armstrong, "You do realise that you have done something very serious?"

Olivier clenched her fists under the table. "Yes, Father."

"And you do realise that this could potentially jeopardize my position as General?"

"Yes, Father."

Mr Armstrong sighed. "You may not be aware of it, but as parents, we –" he motioned to himself and Mrs Armstrong, "– work tirelessly to ensure our children have a good upbringing, but when one of our children betrays our trust . . ." he sighed again. "Well, let's just say that this time, you have gone too far, Olivier. All these years, we have sat back and allowed you to push your limits, but I now believe that it was a mistake."

The words stung her more than a couple of blows with a cane. "But Father –"

"Look at yourself," said Mr Armstrong. "Look at yourself closely. You are nothing like a lady worthy of being called an Armstrong. You run about half the day with your hair in a tangle and your dress in tatters. You have grown far too wild."

"Father, you misunderstand –"

"You may go, Olivier," said Mr Armstrong, waving her away.

"Father –"

"You may go," Mr Armstrong repeated more firmly.

She knew it was no use. Trying hard to stop herself from flying into a rage, she stood up and left the room. She took the next two flights of stairs at a run, and once again bolted into her room and slammed the door.

Why didn't her father understand at all? Why wouldn't he listen to what she had to say? She hadn't obliterated his documents on purpose – she was at the age to have a few mood swings here and there, wasn't she? And yes, she was aware that her parents worked tirelessly. She did care. Couldn't her father at least understand that much? Did he really think she was that selfish?

"I'm never talking to him again," she muttered angrily, driving a fist into her pillow. But then she remembered Alex and the gift. It was Alex's fault, really. It was his fault he was such a goody two-shoes.

Then it came to her. She was mad at her father, mad at Alex and mad at basically everyone else. So why didn't she just leave? She did have a place she wanted to go to, after all.

She leapt off her bed, yanked open her wardrobe door and pulled out her travelling cloak. As she slung it over her shoulders, she grabbed her purse off the top of her dresser and rummaged in one of the drawers for the rope she often used to defy her parents when they locked her in her room. She located it under a large quantity of leaking fountain pens, fished it out and tied it to the window latch. She pulled on her boots, and a wave of fresh night air hit her as she slid open the window. Within seconds she had flung the rope out into the night and was lowering herself down it. Once her feet touched the ground, she immediately headed in what she knew was a northerly direction.

She was going, and no one was going to stop her.


	5. Chapter 5

**I apologise in advance for the length of this chapter. The next one will be longer, I promise!**

* * *

Chapter Five

Olivier walked briskly down the quiet street, clouds of fog billowing out in front of her every time she exhaled. The temperatures had dropped dramatically in the last few hours, and the wind stung her face and made her eyes water. She had to walk with her fingers clutching the brim of her hood so as to keep her face obscured, though judging by the darkness, no one would recognise her anyway.

She strode past convenience stores and post offices and grocery stores, and a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread hit her as she passed the bakery. Her stomach growled in protest, but she gritted her teeth and kept going. She heard vaguely the soft clip-clopping of horses' hooves a few streets away.

The monotonous roads typical of Central City seemed to go on forever. It was funny that the trip to the edge of the city took so much longer walking under the cover of darkness. It didn't help that Olivier's stomach was empty – she wished she'd snuck some food along. It was too risky to go into one of the shops, as practically everyone in the city knew of the infamous Olivier Armstrong and her fiery temper.

After what seemed like hours, Olivier's ears picked up the sound of running water, and she knew that she had finally reached the river. She crouched on the bank, scooped up a handful of icy water and quenched her thirst. She literally felt the freezing water run down her oesophagus, sending a chill down her whole body.

Raising her head to the sky, she saw tiny twinkling stars and a sliver of the moon. The sun was showing no sign of rising.

"Whatever," she muttered to herself. "No one's going to notice."

And she wrapped her travelling cloak tightly around herself, lay down on the grass and fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

When Olivier woke up, she had no idea where she was at first. Why was her bed so prickly and damp? Why did everything look red from behind her closed eyelids? Had she left the light on?

Then she remembered. Her eyes shot open and she pushed herself into a sitting position. The patch of grass she had been lying on looked severely squashed by her body weight, but the rest of the tiny green blades sparkled with dewdrops as the first rays of morning light fell upon them. The river was running quietly and the forest stood dark and eerie in front of her, and behind her the city was silent.

Olivier cupped her hands and blew onto them, bringing circulation back into her fingers. Last night she had been too angry to care, but now she couldn't help but wonder what on earth she was going to do. She wasn't going back – that much she knew – but . . . what did people usually do when they ran away from home? It wasn't as though she was actually turning her back on her family, though – she just wanted a little . . . a little break. She had wanted to go north, but now realised that she had neither gloves nor any other sort of warm clothing – just a disgusting frilly white dress with matching stockings, boots and a black travelling cloak that made her look like a shady figure.

She tried to think. She had money, after all. She could buy all that she wanted, but only after getting out of the suburbs. She didn't know how, but people knew of her even there – perhaps the Armstrong family simply stood out too much.

She considered the options. There was going the whole way on foot and staying in the shadows, but how was she going to find food and frostbite-preventing clothes? Then there was disguising herself, but she had no idea how she was to dye her hair in her current situation. But right now, her first priority was to make it out of the forest alive – she would decide on her travel method later.

She stood up and took a step forward, but –

"Oh, hell!" she burst out angrily. "How am I supposed to cross this damn river?"

The river was damnable all right. It was about forty feet wide, and Olivier was certain that even the best long jumper wouldn't be able to clear it, so she wasn't about to try. She wasn't about to jump in either, for that matter.

Frustrated and hungry, she paced up and down the bank, thinking hard. The nearest bridge was about half a mile to the west, but apparently it had been destroyed by terrorists. And the next bridge was on the other side of the city – there was no way she was going there.

The sun had risen quite high in the sky when she suddenly remembered that she had a rope, the one she had used to escape out of the window of her bedroom. She remembered the knot coming loose and having to stuff it in her travelling cloak to hide the evidence.

That was it. Olivier fumbled in her cloak pocket and pulled it out, and there it lay in her hands, thick and rough and strong. Surveying the area, she saw no trees in the vicinity. She'd have to risk getting wet.

There was one day last year when she had been soaked to the skin on this very bank, when a light drizzle turned into a downpour. The trip home had been a nightmare, for her dress had hung down to her toes when wet, and she couldn't recall how many times she had tripped over the hem of her skirt. From then on she had hated skirts more than ever.

Now she was determined not to relive the experience, but she'd have to be quick. She made a loop in one end of the rope, tied a very tight triple knot, swung it over her head like a lasso and fixed her eyes firmly on the highest and sturdiest bough – that was within reach – of one of the evergreens on the edge of the forest. The rope whizzed over the river, missing the intended branch by inches and whacking into a clump of leaves. It caught for a moment, before gravity took over and brought it crashing down into the river.

Olivier had to grit her teeth to stop herself from yelling out in frustration. She had been so close, and now the rope was even heavier than it had been before, after soaking up so much water. She dragged the sopping hindrance out of the river and tried again. And again. And again. On her fifth attempt, it finally caught and held.

Now came the hard part. Taking a deep breath, she stared fixedly at the other side of the river, and clutching the rope with both hands, she jumped. She barely had time to think before clambering up the rope as fast as her arms could carry her. The edge of her cloak skimmed the surface of the water as she was whisked across the river. Within a foot of the bank, she let go and landed on her feet, but her boots skidded on a patch of moss and she fell forwards, landing on her hands and knees. _Well, that was worth the risk_, she thought, picking herself up and brushing at the green stains on her white stockings.

The rope had swung backwards when she'd let go and was now dangling in the river. She fished it out, wondering if it was worth climbing the tree to retrieve it. She decided that it was.

Tree-climbing was nothing new to her – it was part of her combat training – but it certainly was a bother, and this tree was taller than the river was wide. The rope had caught on a bough about halfway up.

Sighing, she hoisted herself up the trunk. It didn't take her long with the help of the rope – she scampered up like a squirrel – but she couldn't undo the knots, and ended up breaking a couple of branches off to free the rope. On reaching the ground again, she wound it up and crammed it back into her cloak pocket.

It was now late morning, surely. Olivier was surprised that no one had come looking for her yet. That was a good thing, but it also meant that she had to move, and quickly. She hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, and was starting to get thirsty again, but it would be unwise to drink any more river water. The last thing she needed was a stomach bug.

So she summoned up all her courage and marched into the forest.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The further Olivier ventured into the forest, the more certain she was that something was tailing her, most likely a wild animal. She tried to walk in a straight line, as that would ultimately lead her out of this creepy place and into the suburb of Mitron, but every few steps she heard a suspicious shuffling in the bushes and trees that made her spin around sharply. More often than not it was a bird or a rabbit, but though she was brave, Olivier hadn't forgotten her encounter with muggers three years ago, which had resulted in a gunshot, a near-amputation and a concussion.

Her thirst was really starting to slow her down, so she picked some leaves off plants that she knew were not poisonous and sucked on them. It wasn't much, not to mention that some of the leaves tasted horrible enough for her to gag and spit out, but it was better than nothing. She wished more than ever that she hadn't let her anger take over and therefore would've had enough sense to pack some food and water.

Although her stomach was grumbling and her lips were dry, she actually started to appreciate the birdsong that sliced through the still air as cleanly as the Armstrong sword back home would have. She enjoyed watching the birds flutter from tree to tree, their little beaks opening to call to their kin.

Her journey went undisturbed for an hour or so, but a violent rustling in a bush to her right sent her heart shooting up to her mouth – this wasn't the wind or some harmless animal. And she was right. A split second later the beast came hurtling out of the shrub, its teeth bared in a snarl.

It was some sort of wild dog. Adrenaline shot through Olivier's body and she ran for the nearest tree a couple of yards away. The dog was almost on top of her when she threw herself onto the trunk and scrambled up for dear life.

She was well up into the branches before she had the nerve to look back. She had done the right thing. Dogs couldn't climb trees.

There it was, huge and grey, looking up at her from the base of the tree. A low growling noise was coming from its throat, and she could see in its eyes that it felt exactly like she did when her parents refused her what she wanted. She wondered why it was alone and not part of a pack like most wild dogs were. Maybe it had been left behind.

She felt much calmer and braver now that she was safe in the tree's branches.

"Come on, you great mutt," she taunted the dog. "Come and get me."

The dog placed its front paws on the trunk and scrabbled at it, causing fragments of bark to rain down on its body. It seemed to be foaming at the sides of its mouth.

Olivier was highly amused. She broke of small branches and threw them down at the dog. This seemed to infuriate the creature even more, and it made desperate attempts to get up the tree, though needless to say, they all failed.

Olivier teased the dog for a while, but then it suddenly occurred to her that if the beast didn't move, she wouldn't be able to get down from the tree. She held up her hand and made a flapping motion.

"Shoo!" she said. "Go find your lunch elsewhere."

The dog didn't move.

She tried again. "There's meat right over there." She pointed to the bushes behind the dog. "Easy prey. Go on."

The dog simply glared at her. She rolled her eyes, trying to devise a new plan, when all of a sudden, the creature's ears perked up and it took off in the opposite direction. Olivier saw its tail swish in the leaves momentarily, and then it was gone.

She blinked rather rapidly, and then climbed down from the tree. She knew she ought to be grateful that it had disappeared so quickly, but a part of her felt that it was a shame that it hadn't stayed longer. As savage as it had been, sometimes Olivier felt that animals understood her better than humans did.

She held up for a few hours more, but by around early afternoon her legs were aching and her throat was parched.

"Stupid forest," she muttered irritably as she trampled along, splashing mud onto her clean white dress. "Why couldn't they have chopped more of it down?"

She was just about to flop onto the ground and fall asleep when the trees thinned unexpectedly and she found herself in a clearing. She squinted in the sudden bright sunlight. Before her was a whole slice of land occupied by fresh green grass, and on the other side was a –

Olivier squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. She was not hallucinating. It was a horse, saddled, grazing in the pasture. She tiptoed forward for a closer look. It was a beautiful chestnut mare, with two white socks and a white muzzle. Though she seemed calm, Olivier noticed that she was breathing rather quickly, and that the muscles in her flank were tense.

Now, while Olivier was very irritable and impatient around people, she was the complete opposite around horses. She had taken a liking to the creatures ever since she first set eyes on one (which was understandable, as that particular horse had been the feistiest in the whole city). She had taken riding lessons partly because her father had thought it a valuable skill, partly because Alex had had an irrational fear of being thrown off, and partly because she had simply wanted to.

So in the end, she had accumulated a lot of knowledge about horses over the years, and knew a frightened horse when she saw one. This mare had probably escaped from Mitron – Olivier knew practically every horse that pulled the carriages in Central City by sight, and didn't recognise this one – after being treated cruelly.

She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in the fresh air. When she opened them again, she felt calmer. This was something her father had taught her, and enabled her to switch quickly from irritable-tomboy mode to sweet-young-lady mode.

The mare's head jerked up as Olivier walked confidently towards her. After taking in the girl's appearance, the creature took a few steps backwards, her ears flat against her head and her nostrils flaring. Olivier could see the whites of her eyes.

"It's all right," she cooed, slowly advancing with her hand held out. "I won't hurt you."

The horse snorted. Her eyes were huge and terrified, but Olivier thought there was something else in them, something she couldn't quite make out. She continued to take slow steps in the grass. Then, without warning, the mare reared up on her hind legs.

"Whoa!" Olivier jumped back, quick as lightning. Another moment and she would've been kicked in the face. She held up both hands. "Whoa, girl, calm down!"

The horse dropped back on four legs, and this time Olivier knew what she was seeing in her eyes. Defiance.

"Ha!" she said triumphantly. "So you're not quite the gutless type, after all." She was about to say more, but caught herself just in time and forced her voice to sound soothing. "Come here, girl," she beckoned with a finger and a sweet smile.

The mare was still regarding her with suspicion. Olivier wished she had an apple to coax her with. Nevertheless, she persisted. "There now, you pretty creature," she said, trying to squash her features into a more innocent look, "You don't honestly believe that a vulnerable little girl like me could do you any harm, do you?" As she spoke, she inched towards the horse again.

The mare didn't try to resist this time, but her eyes were still distrustful and her ears were perked up and alert.

_I need a different strategy_, thought Olivier desperately. _Who knows how long this is going to take? I might as well be dead by then. _

"Well now," she said matter-of-factly, some of her old harshness back in her voice (the mare's head jerked up, noticing the change in tone), "Since you obviously prefer your _real _master, I suppose I don't stand a chance, though it is a shame." With that, she turned on her heel and strode briskly back the way she had come.

She had barely walked two steps when she heard a pleading whinny behind her, and when she looked back the mare was trotting up to her, stopping a few feet away.

"Yes?" Olivier said sweetly, as though oblivious to the situation. The horse whinnied again.

"Ah, I see. Have you changed your mind, girl? Well, come a little closer –" she beckoned encouragingly, "– or I'll leave again." She pointed to the stretch of forest before her.

The mare seemed to consider for a moment, but decided that she'd rather not be alone. She walked up to Olivier, who reached out slowly and stroked her muzzle.

"Good girl," she said softly, feeling triumphant. A ray of sunlight landed on the mare's halter, and a name flashed down at her. _Ember_.

She grinned. "Ember, huh? I can see why that is."

Ember whinnied, as though glad she was being called her proper name at last.

"Now, will you let me borrow you for a while, girl?" Olivier asked. Without waiting for an answer, she put one foot in the stirrup and swung herself over the saddle.

She had barely grabbed hold of the reins before Ember broke into a canter. They thundered across the clearing and into the trees on the other side, the wind whipping Olivier's hood off her head in the process. All as well, or so she thought, until Ember stopped so suddenly that she was thrown into the air. The reins slipped out of her sweaty hands and she did a somersault in the air before landing solidly on her feet like a cat.

"Testing me, were you?" she panted. She could see nothing that could have frightened Ember. "Well, you'd better not try that again. You might end up killing me next time."

She mounted Ember again, and this time, there were no tricks in store for her. Before she knew it, they had reached Mitron, and the sun had just set.

The suburb looked exactly as she remembered it, having made a few trips here in the past. Humble houses and shops were scattered around the place, and unlike Central City, Mitron had no shortage of trees. Dirt roads wound around buildings and a general air of tranquillity emanated from the area.

But the one thing Olivier was interested in was a fountain, gushing clear, glistening water. She had just about caused it to dry out (that was how thirsty she was) when a voice came out of the blue.

"Ember! Oh, thank goodness!"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Olivier turned, water dribbling down her chin. The person who had yelled out was a short, middle aged woman who was lovingly stroking Ember's neck. She looked a kindly figure, with brown hair twisted into a simple knot and warm hazel eyes.

"Oh, pardon me," she said, noticing Olivier watching her. "You found my darling Ember, didn't you? The poor thing ran off after my son gave her a beating of some sort. I tell him time and time again not to, but he never listens – oh, here I am, chattering away out in chilly weather like this – you look freezing, dear, why don't you come in for a moment?"

Olivier hastily wiped the water off her face with her sleeve and followed the woman across the street and into a very normal-looking house. As they entered the hallway, Olivier pulled off her travelling cloak and looked around.

Compared to the Armstrong mansion, it was nothing, but technically speaking, it was exactly what the interior of an ordinary suburban house should look like. The floorboards were squeaky-clean, a large vase stood in one corner and a shabby framed painting of a landscape hung on the wall. The woman called for a boy, who Olivier assumed was her son, to take Ember to the stable. Olivier caught a glimpse of the lad, hardly eighteen, by the looks of it, as he shuffled outside, tall and gangling.

"Do come in," said the woman benignly. "I'll make some tea."

She led Olivier into a small sitting room on the right. Olivier was hit with a sudden stifling warmth as she stepped through the door, the source of which she saw straight away – a fire was roaring away in the fireplace on the far side of the room. Two threadbare sofas occupied most of the space, in between which stood an old coffee table. Olivier was glad to rest her legs – horse-riding required abundant use of leg muscles.

The woman told Olivier to wait while she made the tea and left the room. Olivier gazed aimlessly at a spot above the mantelpiece, only aware of how empty her stomach was. She was no longer thirsty, having glugged down half the fountain, but now that the distraction of thirst was gone, the hunger returned in full measure.

The woman re-entered the room shortly, carrying a porcelain tray that held a teapot, two cups and a plate of biscuits. Olivier could almost see the 'Guests Only' sign stuck to the china.

"Help yourself," said the woman, setting the tray down on the coffee table. She sat down opposite Olivier. "Well, the first thing I'd like to say is: thank you so much for returning Ember to us – I don't know how I'm going to repay you."

Olivier took a biscuit, trying to resist the temptation to gobble up the whole thing like a savage. "You don't think I stole Ember, Mrs, er . . ."

"Mrs Bennett," said the woman. "Of course I don't think that!" Then she seemed to reconsider. "You didn't, did you, dear?"

"No," said Olivier, swallowing a mouthful. "I found her in the forest, and I was almost positive that she was from Mitron." As she took the next bite, she decided to act as agreeable and polite as possible. "But thank you for trusting me, Mrs Bennett."

Mrs Bennett smiled. "I can say the same for you, dear. May I know your name?"

_Think, think, think_, Olivier told herself. "Clarissa," she said, deliberately choosing the most feminine-sounding name that came to mind, one whoever was looking for her wouldn't suspect. "Clarissa Hamilton."

"And you're from Central City, are you, Clarissa?"

"Yes, that's right."

Mrs Bennett looked thoughtful. "Now, what would a lass like you be doing all alone in this tiny, unnoticed suburb?"

She'd known this was coming. "Well, it's a long story," she said, smiling hesitantly to play for time.

"Is it, now?" said Mrs Bennett. "Well, I'm not about to force it out of you, but I'm simply concerned for your safety, dear."

Olivier felt a stab of annoyance. For her safety – how old was she, three? But she masked her irritation with a smile. "The thing is, I'm afraid I can't tell you the whole story, Mrs Bennett," she said. "But it has something to do with my family. We have to do special training, you see, and right now I'm on a sort of mission."

Olivier was amazed at her own proficiency to spin tales. The most extraordinary thing about it was that none of what she had said was a lie. Obviously she couldn't tell this woman about her running away from home, which did have to do with her family, members of which did give her special training. And she was on a mission – to go as far up north as she could. But all these statements put together had no truth in them whatsoever.

But Mrs Bennett seemed to believe her, though perhaps because she was only a child. "If you say so, dear," she said, "But I do hope you're not headed for trouble." Then she clapped her hands together, as though suddenly remembering something. "Now, why don't you stay for dinner, Clarissa? It's just my way of thanking you – you can't imagine how much Ember cost us, and to lose her after a mere two weeks . . ."

"Oh, I don't know . . ." said Olivier, though her stomach told her otherwise.

"I insist!" said Mrs Bennett. "I'm hazarding a guess that your so-called 'mission' has something to do with survival in the real world – forgive me if I'm wrong – and don't you look famished! Now don't be so humble, dear, I'll whip up something in a flash." She bustled back into the kitchen again.

In just under half an hour Mrs Bennett had whisked Olivier into the dining room, which was about three times smaller than that of the Armstrong mansion, with a chipped, dented and slightly lopsided wooden table and four chairs of the same quality, and laid out bowls of steaming soup, plates of mashed potatoes and meatballs, and fresh homemade buns. Back home the table would have been buckling under the weight of an absolutely scrumptious dinner, but Olivier was too hungry to care. Mrs Bennett's son slouched in just as she started on the potatoes, but he didn't take any notice of her. Fortunately, however, Mrs Bennett talked all the way through the meal, allowing Olivier to stuff herself to her heart's content.

"My son Pat drives the carts around here," said Mrs Bennett. "We had two stallions, but one died a couple of months ago, so we bought Ember. We've always been a bit tight on money, but we get by."

_Typical_, thought Olivier, her mouth bulging. Having been brought up in a very wealthy family, it was hard for her to imagine what it was like to be short of food or money.

"My husband has always been the adventurous type," Mrs Bennett continued. "Even as we speak, he's travelling. He's an archaeologist, so you could count it as work, but he's seldom found anything of worth. It's just a hobby, really. But I can't say it's pointless one, not quite. I owe it all to him that I now have a –" She stopped short.

Olivier looked up, still half-immersed in her soup. "What's wrong?"

Mrs Bennett looked troubled. "Clarissa . . ."

"Cut it out, you meddlesome wench!" said Pat suddenly, glaring at Olivier. "First you barge in to a stranger's house like you're the president and eat like a pig, and now you think it's your business to invade my mother's privacy, is that it?"

"Pat!" exclaimed Mrs Bennett, shock written all over her face. "How could you be so rude? Clarissa is here as my guest."

"Fine then," said Pat. "If she's here as _your _guest, I might as well clear out." And he did, slamming the door without a backward glance.

Mrs Bennett turned back to Olivier. "I'm sorry," she said. "He can be appalling sometimes."

Olivier could almost feel her blood bubbling in her veins, but she forced a smile. "It's all right," she said, though it most definitely wasn't. "I won't take it to heart."

Mrs Bennett's face relaxed. "That's a relief. Now, I need to ask you a question, Clarissa."

"What is it, Mrs Bennett?"

"I'm guessing you were brought up in a wealthier family than mine. Therefore," she steadied herself, "What is your opinion of Ishvalans?"

The question threw Olivier off completely. Ishval was a dry, rugged region in the East, and its people, who all had dark skin and red eyes, possessed mutual hatred towards many Amestrians, most notably the upper classes. She hadn't been expecting a question regarding this.

"They're people," she said, as her father had always told her. "I'm not stupid enough to hate them. It's a waste of time. What's the point of it, when it'll probably make Amestris collapse?"

Mrs Bennett stared at her. "That's the truth?"

Olivier shrugged. "Well, you can throw me out if you want, Mrs Bennett." She shoved her last spoonful of soup into her mouth and sat back in her chair, feeling well-fed and at ease.

Mrs Bennett laughed. "All right, I believe you. Now, what I'm about to tell you isn't known by many, so keep it a secret, okay? I don't want it to spread to the city centre."

Olivier nodded.

"You see, eleven years ago," Mrs Bennett began, "my husband came home with a baby, a tiny Ishvalan girl wrapped in filthy rags. He said he'd stumbled upon her in an alley. She was just lying there, he said, simply having been abandoned, and he couldn't bring himself to leave such a fragile being on the street to die. She was only about a year old. So he brought her home and begged me to take care of her. I was reluctant at first, but then I realised that if I refused, she'd be taken to an orphanage and wouldn't be treated half as well as the Amestrian children there. So I agreed.

"I named her Ruby because of the colour of her eyes, and took her under my wing along with Pat, who was then seven years old. Many of my friends despised me for doing so, but I persisted. As she grew up, Ruby began to question her identity, and after months of pleading, I let her travel to Ishval to see the place for herself. That's exactly where she is now."

Olivier was quite impressed in spite of herself. No one she knew would have the guts to take in an Ishvalan girl, knowing the consequences. Mrs Bennett most likely had to cut ties with numerous acquaintances in order to achieve this.

"Eleven years ago," Olivier said thoughtfully. "So she'd be my – she'd be twelve now, wouldn't she?" She had almost said 'my age', but that would have made her an easy target for her search party.

"Yes," said Mrs Bennett.

Olivier suddenly realised that it must be quite late. "Well, I'd better be going now," she said, standing up. "Thank you for the dinner." To make Mrs Bennett like her even more, she pulled out her purse and put a handful of coins on the scratched wooden surface of the table.

"Oh, there's no need, dear," objected Mrs Bennett immediately. "I already can't thank you enough for finding Ember."

"It's just a little," said Olivier, indicating the coins.

"No, really," said Mrs Bennett, pushing the money back towards her.

Olivier took the coins back, feeling that it was useless to argue. "Your secret's safe with me," she said as she pulled on her travelling cloak.

Mrs Bennett smiled. "Thank you. Do you have somewhere to stay to complete your 'mission'?"

"I'll manage," said Olivier.

"I'd let you stay here, but Pat would lose his head. As it is, he's probably sleeping out in the stable anyway."

A fresh wave of anger rose in Olivier's body at the mere thought of Pat. "Thank you again, Mrs Bennett," she said, taking brisk steps out of the dining room, in case she exploded right then and there.

"Take care," she heard Mrs Bennett say.

Once the front door had closed behind her, Olivier took deep breaths of the cold night air, trying to control herself. It was people like Pat who really deserved the contempt Ishvalans had to put up with. What right did he have to speak to anyone like that? Not to mention that she was the eldest daughter of the renowned Armstrong family, whereas he was a cart driver out in the suburbs.

Olivier suddenly remembered what Mrs Bennett had said, that Pat was probably in the stables. She spun around and headed around the house. Her conscience was telling her not to do this, but her anger got the better of it, as it always did. Her conscience hadn't stopped her from running away from home, anyhow.

Sure enough, Pat was outside the stables around the back, which could hardly be described as stables. There were only two stalls, which were so run-down that they looked as though they would fall apart the moment either horse – Ember or a black stallion – made the tiniest move. Pat was clearly scolding Ember and trying to keep his voice down at the same time, and it wasn't working.

". . . ever do that again! I swear, I'll hit you with my mother's biggest saucepan!"

Olivier gritted her teeth. The arrogant fool didn't even know how to handle his own horses!

"I'm telling you, if you ever let yourself get stolen again –"

In a flash, Olivier leapt out from the shadows. "She wasn't stolen!"

Pat spun around. His face hardened when he saw who it was. "Still here, are you?"

He was almost unnaturally tall, even when he was slouching, but she didn't feel a bit intimidated. She looked straight at him, her bright blue eyes boring into his glowering grey ones. "Yes," she said. "Ember wasn't stolen, and that is no way to treat horses!"

Pat stared fiercely at her. She noticed his lanky figure, how his bones seemed to have grown too fast for the rest of his body, and his wild mop of tawny hair. "Don't tell me what to do!" he said angrily.

"Oh, I do wonder how your first stallion died!" Olivier burst out. "How can your mother tolerate someone like you?"

"Mind your own business!"

Olivier strode over to him. "Look at the state of this!" She thrust a finger at the stable. "Horses can only put up with so much, you know! The way you treat them –"

"What would a city snob like you know?"

"Oh, I know more than _you_, at least!" Olivier's voice had risen to a shout, and she wouldn't be surprised if Mrs Bennett came running to see what was going on.

It happened so quickly that Olivier didn't have time to react. Pat raised his hand and brought it down on her cheek so hard that her head was jerked to the side. Eyes watering, she looked up to see his silhouette disappearing through the back door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks to all the people who have reviewed so far! Keep reading!**

* * *

Chapter Nine

Olivier made sure to put as much distance between Mrs Bennett's house and herself before she stopped and kicked a rubbish bag lying on the side of the road so hard that it burst and spilled its contents all over the dirt. Her cheek stung from the cold and the slap Pat had given her.

For a few minutes she just stood there, panting, until she calmed down. Then she stumbled over to the nearest house, crawled through a hole in the fence, slumped onto what felt like grass and let sleep take over.

In the morning she felt quite disoriented at first. It was cold and wet and somehow . . . slimy. Her eyes shot open and she almost yelled out in shock. A dog, a tiny black and white puppy, was licking her face.

She pushed the puppy off her and jerked up. "Ugh, gross," she muttered, wiping saliva off her face. The bottom of her travelling cloak came away white and sticky.

The sun was rising in the east. Olivier was glad, as otherwise she would've lost her bearings completely. She calculated approximately ninety degrees anticlockwise from the sun and locked the direction in her head. Then she looked around.

She was in a garden, surrounded by trees and bushes that would probably be bursting with sweet-smelling flowers come spring. Behind her stood a rickety swing, its chains creaking and groaning as it was buffeted by the wind. The house on her left was typical of those in the suburbs – small and run-down but quite sturdy.

The dog padded up to her and looked at her with inquiring eyes.

"Don't randomly lick strangers," said Olivier, getting to her feet. _Might as well watch the sun rise_, she thought. _I could do with some cheering up_.

She didn't regret it. The sky lit up before her eyes – she watched until it was flushing with oranges and yellows and pinks and whites and blues; until the fluffy grey clouds in the east were glowing with magnificent fluorescent colours; until the fluffy grey clouds in the west were tinged with a pale but perceptible pink.

The puppy suddenly started yapping, snapping her back to reality. With a jolt she realised that the front door was creaking open.

"Oh, blast!"

She dashed to the fence, crawled through the hole and took off. It took less than half an hour for her to get out of Mitron, and another few hours to put the inner suburbs behind her. On arriving in the outer suburbs, she figured that she was safe, that no one was likely to have even heard of her out here.

"Excuse me," she said, striding confidently into a clothes shop, "I'd like a pair of gloves and a jacket and trousers suitable for cold weather."

After paying for the garments she next entered a convenience store and bought a few buns, a couple of apples and a compass. While munching on one of the buns she ducked behind some dustbins on a side street and stripped off her travelling cloak and dress, which now looked as though it had been tie-dyed green. The sudden exposure caused goose bumps to form on her arms even though she immediately whipped the woolly jacket and trousers over her blouse and stockings, and the gloves on her hands.

"No!" a voice rang out, accompanied seconds later by hurried footsteps and a splash as something made contact with water.

Olivier froze, the button of her travelling cloak having been pushed halfway through its buttonhole. Raising herself carefully so that her eyes were barely above the dustbin lids, she saw two children by the gutter – a boy and a girl, both of them wearing clothes that were patched and frayed. The boy, who looked about nine, was scolding the girl, who was probably about two years younger than him.

"How could you, Lucia?" hollered the boy. "That's a whole week of food down the drain! Literally!"

Olivier's eyes followed the boy's finger as he reached out and pointed to the gutter. There, half-immersed in muddy water, was a loaf of bread.

Lucia, who Olivier assumed was the boy's sister, burst into tears. "I'm sorry!" she choked out between sobs. "Oh Todd, whatever is Mama going to say?"

As Todd reprimanded and Lucia cried, Olivier tried to stand up as quietly as possible, but her arm knocked into one of the metal lids and it flew off, hitting the ground with a loud clang.

The siblings jumped, Lucia uttering a tiny squeal.

"I'm not a ghost," said Olivier, as the two children were staring at her as though she was one. She jumped over the dustbins and was on the point of walking away when it struck her that Todd and Lucia were not, in fact, all that shocked by her sudden materialisation – their eyes were locked on the brown paper bag of buns sticking out of her cloak pocket.

"Honestly, kids these days," she said as the realisation sunk in. She had noticed that the people who lived in this suburb were rather thin and unkempt, but this starvation was a bit severe. "Fine," she yanked the bag out and tossed it to Todd, who caught it, a look of incredulity on his face, "it's not like it's a waste or anything."

She spun on her heel and started to walk away again, but Lucia ran forward and grabbed the hem of her cloak. "Thank you so much, missy!" she squeaked, her eyes brimming with tears again.

"It's _miss_, Lucia, not _missy_," said Todd disapprovingly, though he still seemed dazed, as though Olivier had given him the Armstrong mansion instead of a few buns. "Well really, thanks," he said to her. "Want this? In exchange, maybe?"

He was holding out a tiny wooden spinning top, small enough to fit in one hand.

"It's not really my thing," said Olivier impatiently, marvelling at how little these people had. "Besides, I have too much trash already. I live in a mansion, you know." As soon as the words escaped her lips, she clapped a hand over her mouth. How stupid was she? What if these kids ratted on her?

"Have it, won't you?" Todd insisted.

"Pretty please?" said Lucia, still clinging on to Olivier's cloak.

Olivier frowned. "You sure are pushy. But since you're so persistent, I won't refuse." She tugged her cloak out of Lucia's grasp and strode up to Todd, who handed her the spinning top. After examining it for a moment, she pocketed it, saying indifferently, "Whatever. Nothing special." But inside, she didn't know whether or not this was true.

"Miss?" Lucia spoke up. "What's this?"

She was pointing to Olivier's filthy dress, which was slung over her arm.

"A dress. What else could it be?"

"But where did you get it? It's so pretty."

Olivier looked at Lucia's tatty dress and sighed. "So basically, you're not going to let me go until you've taken all my belongings?"

"No, that's not what I –"

Olivier dumped the dress on Lucia's head, her patience used up. "Just don't tell your parents anything about me." With that she marched off before they could refuse it.

Once near the little cluster of shops again, she decided not to buy any more food for the time being. She wasn't hungry, and cringed at the thought of stocking up on food for more than a few days – she had never been given leftovers back home, after all.

Guessing by the position of the sun in the overcast sky, it was about noon. She made up her mind to pay for a ride on a buggy to the next city, Tyrwhitt, and then catch a train from there. She only had time to sight a buggy, however, before she found herself flanked by a gang of men.

She didn't have time to put up a fight. A hand, smelling strongly of rum and sweat, clamped over her mouth, and several more locked her wrists and ankles in a tight hold. Together they dragged her into a dark alley.

"Where'dya come from, ya moneyed wench?" growled a voice.

Whoever it belonged to probably wasn't expecting an answer, but Olivier couldn't tell, as her eyes were starting to water from the foul stench coming from the hand over her mouth. She could just make out several dark shapes closing in on her, wanting a closer look.

"So what've we got 'ere?"

"Some snooty city girl, by the looks of it."

"Hey, that's pretty good. Let's get to it."

Olivier struggled and kicked, but it was about ten against one, which was virtually impossible. A chill ran down her spine as the men searched her from head to toe, pulling from her pockets the apples, her purse and the wooden spinning top. Unlikely though it may be, it was the sight of this tiny, insignificant object that sent a jolt of anger through her body and her teeth into the hand binding her. The owner swore and released his grip.

"You morons!" Olivier yelled, freeing her arms with a jerk.

One of the men, having been caught off guard, tried to grab her again, but another shouted, "No need! We've got everything!"

The remaining men let go of her and sprinted into the main street.

Olivier dropped to her knees, dazed for a moment, before scrambling up and tearing after them. She spotted the spinning top held loosely in the fingers of one of the trailing men. "Give that back!" She lunged forwards, knocking it into the air with a swipe of her hand. The man whipped around, taken aback.

"Don't mind that!" bellowed the leader. "It's just a stupid toy!"

Olivier grabbed the spinning top as it fell and felt a sharp jolt of pain in her shoulder as she slammed into the ground. The man took off again after a moment's hesitation.

"Wait!" She picked herself up, but someone grabbed her arm.

It was a woman, looking terrified. "Please don't!" she cried. "You don't know how it is here. This is normal – no one can do anything about it. This whole place is corrupt."

"I don't care!" Olivier swung around, but the men were nowhere in sight.

"Please!" the woman begged. "Just let it go. And get away from here – it's too dangerous."

"Right then, I'll do that!" Olivier whipped out her compass, which the muggers hadn't found, located north and pelted up the street.

She ran until all her fear and anger had left her, until every breath felt sharp in her chest. Then she skidded to a stop beside a garbage heap, bent double, clutching the spinning top in her sweaty hands. She couldn't believe how imprudent she had been. A compass and a toy. That was all she had left. Instead of trying to retrieve her purse, she'd gone after a mere toy.

Now what had she done?


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

First Pat, now muggers. Again. For the first time since she had stormed out of her own house, Olivier felt a pang of guilt as she sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, trying to block out the nauseating smell of the garbage heap. What did her father think of her now? Had her mother given up on her? Did her siblings believe they'd never see her again?

"Of course not," she said aloud, standing up so abruptly that her foot whacked into something hard. It was a moment before she became conscious of what it was. A bicycle, rather rusty and battered and with a crooked handlebar, but a bicycle all the same. She had been so preoccupied with her guilt that she hadn't noticed it lying right beside her, at the foot of the garbage heap.

Grasping the handlebars, she wrenched it upwards and took a good look at it. She couldn't deny that it looked as though it was ready to fall to pieces, but it was much more preferable than walking. She jumped on, checked her compass again and set off.

Within minutes her undergarments were soaked with sweat, but she wasn't dim-witted enough to take off her now overly warm clothes, only to have to don them again later.

She peddled furiously for hours on end, until the muscles in her legs were screaming in agony. Then she stopped to quench her thirst and satisfy her hunger (using natural resources), before setting off again. The scenery changed as she alternately peddled and ate and slept in the next few days – from towering buildings and immense factories in Tyrwhitt to shabby schools and inns on the outskirts, and then to another forest, this one much more diverse than the last: with plants and animals she had never seen before, as well as babbling brooks and gushing waterfalls and soaring mountains and plunging valleys. Meanwhile, the temperature steadily dropped and she half-expected it to snow every time she looked up at the sky.

However, she seemed to be down on her luck – on the second morning of her time in the forest, the front tyre of the bicycle burst without warning and almost sent her hurtling headfirst into a rather nasty-looking waterfall. She managed to save herself by clinging onto a branch but was forced to let the bicycle go.

"Witless third-rate bicycle manufacturers!" she yelled, pulling herself to safety. Now she regretted more than ever her rash decision to explore the North, and longed for soft pillows and hot baths and steaming soup. But if she gave up now, she'd probably hate herself for the rest of her life and even worse, be branded as a spineless moron.

But luck did arrive later that day. As she contemplated climbing a looming mountain to save time, a strange chugging sound could be heard in the distance.

_Train!_ Olivier thought, and her quick brain began to work furiously. She was positive that the train was heading her way from the south, for the sound was getting louder. Without further ado, she turned, leapt up a tree near the railway track that wound around the mountain and perched on a bough, waiting. Sure enough, the train materialised moments later – a cumbersome, dirty monstrosity from which black fumes billowed. It seemed to pick up speed as it approached, and Olivier fixed her gaze on the metal rail connected to the roof of the middle carriage, before jumping into nothingness. The wind whistled in her ears and whipped her hair back. She reached out blindly and for a moment thought she was about to plunge to her death, but a flash of silver brought her back to her senses and her fingers found the rail. The rest of her body slammed against the side of the carriage, perpendicular to the railway track. Eyes watering, she spat out a mouthful of hair, kicked the slightly ajar window wide open, launched herself through it and landed in a heap on the floor.

_Don't underestimate an Armstrong, even if she's female_, she thought, grinning. This, in her opinion, had to be the most exhilarating stunt she had performed yet. She very much doubted that Alex had the guts, let alone the skill, to pull off something of this scale.

She got to her feet and let her body drop onto the vacant seat. Her stomach felt awfully empty, and all her energy seemed to seep out of her muscles like water from a hot spring. She let sleep take over . . .

* * *

" . . . reckon this is her?"

"Yeah, it's got to be. Look, she even has the famous Armstrong hair."

"Are you sure we've got the right person?"

"What, you want me to see if her eyes are blue?"

Olivier forced her eyelids to lift. She had slipped sideways in her sleep, and her cheek stuck to the leather seat. Two men were leaning over her, peering closely at her face. They were wearing blue military uniforms.

Olivier jumped to her feet so quickly that her head almost banged into the two men's. "You're my search party, aren't you?"

The first man held up his hands. "Please wait, Miss Armstrong. We don't want to be –"

Wham! Olivier kicked him in the face. He fell hard into the compartment door. Before the second man could retaliate, Olivier had punched him multiple times in the stomach. She shoved them out of the way and yanked the door open – only to come face to face with a whole carriage-full of her father's men.

"Don't resist," said one of them grimly. "We've been given strict orders to bring you home."

Olivier glanced desperately at the window. She would never make it.

"Don't even think about it," said another soldier. "It's suicide."

Olivier raised her fist, but the soldier grabbed her arm. "Come with us."

She pinched her lips together for a whole minute. Then, at last, she gave a curt nod.

She let them pin her hands behind her back as though she was a criminal. She let them lead her off the train as soon as they arrived at the station, and then onto another to take her home. She let them escort her to the Armstrong mansion come nightfall, in an expensive military car. But she did _not _let them accompany her inside.

As soon as she set foot on the threshold, her mother and her siblings came running. Her mother hugged her very tightly and could not seem to find words to describe her feelings. Mrs Armstrong was a stout woman and usually not one to cry in front of others, and tonight she lived up to her reputation. Alex and Amue, however, burst into tears at the sight of Olivier and almost shattered her ribcage by clamping their muscular arms around her middle. Even Strongine, who stood awkwardly behind the little party, seemed more sentimental than usual, though the only words that left her lips were: "You're such an idiot, Sis."

After the commotion died down and Mrs Armstrong sent Alex, Amue and Strongine to bed, she directed her attention to her eldest daughter and said sternly, "I shall not make any comments regarding what you have done, Olivier Mira Armstrong, but your father has requested an audience with you. He is in his study. Go. This instant."

Olivier threw back her head and marched across the hallway. No matter how much she regretted what she had done, she wasn't about to let it show on her face. When she reached her father's study, she raised a hand and gave the door two short, crisp taps.

"Enter," said Mr Armstrong.

Olivier stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. As usual, her father sat at his desk, amidst stacks of papers and folders and surrounded by shelf upon shelf of books that had accumulated over the years.

"Before you start a rambling speech with your haughty ways," he said without preamble, "I will tell you something: I am not about to disown you."

Olivier stayed silent. She knew something dangerous was coming.

"However," said Mr Armstrong, "I must ask you this: Have you looked at yourself once since I told you to?"

Olivier forced herself to keep staring into her father's eyes. "No, Father."

"I can't say I thought so. Do so now."

Olivier looked down at herself. Her clothes were torn and caked with mud, and her hands were coated with a layer of grime.

"What do you see?" her father prompted her.

"A filthy little scoundrel, unworthy of being called an Armstrong," she said.

Her father looked as though he was about to laugh for a moment, but the impulse seemed to quickly fade away. Olivier could imagine what he would have said on any other day: "You have quite a tongue, Olivier."

Now he said, "A satisfactory answer. Do you know how I feel about all this?"

"No, Father."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, Father." Then, seeing the expression on Mr Armstrong's face, Olivier added, "If I must take a guess, perhaps you hate me."

"Incorrect," said Mr Armstrong. "I am disappointed in you, because you have disgraced not only yourself, but your whole family."

Olivier felt it again – the sensation of being struck in the chest with an invisible whip. "Then punish me, Father."

Mr Armstrong sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together in front of him. "You're quite right in saying that, Miss Armstrong."

Olivier's heartbeat quickened. "Tell me what the punishment is."

When her father twiddled his thumbs on the desk, she said angrily, "Don't take your time! Tell me!"

Mr Armstrong looked up and seemed to consider for a moment, before saying, "Indeed? I will, then, if you insist – I will not be teaching you alchemy, and I shall seriously contemplate giving the Armstrong inheritance to your brother."

Olivier felt her eyes widen against her will. Alchemy! The Armstrong inheritance! How could he? She opened her mouth to object, but her father cut across her. "Do you understand?"

Olivier bit down on her tongue to stop herself from saying something foolish. "Yes, Father," she answered when the wave of anger had passed.

* * *

Olivier's boots skidded on the wet grass beside the river. Bent double, she clutched at a stitch in her side and let the fat droplets run down her cheeks and drip into the river. The soldiers outside the mansion had shouted at her to stop when they saw her dash out the front gate, but her father simply said, "Let her be. She won't try to run away again."

_I really am a spineless moron_, she thought furiously. Not only had she been an insolent wretch – now she was also crying like a coward, in a place where no one could see her.

She vented her frustration by picking up a stone on the riverbank and hurling it across the surface of the water, where it skipped twelve times before sinking to the bottom. Smiling slightly at her success, she dropped her outstretched arm and her hand knocked against something hard in her pocket.

The spinning top. She pulled it out and stared at it – then all the conflicting feelings that had stirred inside her since acquiring it came together, and she finally knew what she really wanted to do.

* * *

"Father!" Olivier hurtled through the doorway of her father's study. "Father, I need to –"

"Take a bath, Miss Armstrong." He barely glanced up at her. "I daresay you need it."

"Father, just –"

"I'm rather preoccupied at the moment, as you can see –"

"Father! _Listen_!" She spoke with such force that Mr Armstrong's head jerked up. "I've made up my mind. I'm going to be a soldier."

Mr Armstrong raised his eyebrows. "Not particularly shocking, considering your personality."

"No, Father. It's not what you think. I've seen the state of this country. I want to protect Amestris and its people."

And after the most sentimental speech in her life, she pivoted round, nose in the air, and strode out the door. She did need a bath, after all.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"Miss Olivier?" said Posy. "Are you ill?"

"No."

"Are you sure you feel all right?"

"Yes."

For the past week Olivier had stood at her window with her arms folded across the windowsill, moving only to eat, sleep and trudge downstairs for her lessons. No one noticed, but the spinning top had not left her closed fist during all this time. All the maids, and most likely her family as well, thought she was in some sort of stupor caused by her father's harsh chastisement. All except Posy.

"I hear you're hankering to follow in Master Armstrong's footsteps, Miss," she said cheerfully, leaning past Olivier to scour the glass directly in front of Olivier's face.

Olivier didn't even blink. "And how does that concern you?"

Anyone else would have been completely put off by the insensitive question, but Posy continued to scrub at the same spot and said in mock arrogance, "Well, I'm your most trusted confidante, ain't I?"

Olivier frowned. "At least you didn't say you're my only confidante," she muttered, but immediately regretted it.

Posy pretended to drop the cloth she was holding. "My, my, this is rather touching," she said, grinning.

Olivier turned away and willed her cheeks to stay their normal colour. Posy could be so infuriating sometimes. Perhaps she would do better giving up serving the Armstrong family and selling flowers full-time instead.

"Well then," said Posy, "why are you standing there all day like a statue? Why, I could just put plaster all over you and be done with it."

In actual fact, the reason was that Olivier simply wasn't bursting with suppressed energy like she usually was, and could think of nothing in particular to do. She just wanted to think over things for awhile. Naturally, this didn't go well with the other members of the Armstrong household, as the Olivier they knew was nothing like this.

"It's complicated," she said to Posy.

"Are you growing up, then, Miss? Too much on your mind?"

Olivier wasn't in the mood to give Posy a run-through of the whole chain of events that had led to her decision to join the military, but something about her maid's broad grin and knowing expression caused the words to escape her mouth as easily as water from a leaking tap. Soon she was telling Posy about Todd and Lucia, about the loaf of bread and the spinning top, about the muggers who had taken all her belongings.

When at last she stopped to take a breath, Posy looked impressed. "I'm sure your father doesn't hate you, Miss," she said, and left the room to rinse the dirty cloth.

Over the next few weeks, Olivier began to liven up again, Alex apologised time and time again for something that wasn't his fault, Mr Armstrong stopped addressing Olivier as 'Miss Armstrong', and life returned to normal in the mansion.

During the last week of winter, Mrs Armstrong quietly informed Olivier that she was expecting a baby. Olivier, though not too surprised, wondered how on earth she had failed to notice her mother's positively ballooning belly. She had to be at least five months pregnant by now.

The remaining four months – in which Alex began to study alchemy, Olivier got jealous and attempted to ruin his efforts despite knowing that she deserved her punishment, and Mrs Armstrong ballooned further – flew by, and the baby was born amidst the hot winds and droning cicadas of summer.

The cries of the midwife ("It's a girl! A girl!") rang through the corridors, up flights of stairs and into Olivier's room, and she immediately abandoned the sums she had been ordered to do and bolted down to the ground floor, almost tripping over her pesky skirts along the way.

Her whole family gathered around the bed, in the room set apart specifically for birthing. Olivier's new sister, who lay in the midwife's arms, was an adorable little girl with tufts of hair closer to gold than blond, unlike the other Armstrong children, though her eyes were the clear, striking blue the family was renowned for. Sudden elation welled up in Olivier's chest as the bright sunlight streaming in through the window illuminated the baby's face. The midwife, beaming, placed the tiny bundle in Mrs Armstrong's arms.

"No problems at all, then, Mrs Armstrong?" said the midwife, though it was more of a validation than a question. "Personally, I reckon this one came out quite the same way as your first. My, the three who followed were as big as boulders and twice as chunky. It's a wonder they didn't get stuck halfway."

Alex, Amue and Strongine flushed. Olivier frowned at the midwife for her lack of dignity, but inside, she was glad that she finally had a normal-sized sibling. She had been feeling somewhat left out until now.

The midwife left after lecturing Mrs Armstrong on how to make sure everything was well – a speech Mrs Armstrong had heard four times already, but she listened nonetheless. Then Mr and Mrs Armstrong set about looking for a fitting name. They discarded Clarissa, Priscilla and Anastasia, before settling on Elizabeth Jane.

"But that's such a mouthful," said Strongine. "Can't we shorten it?"

Olivier snorted. "Everything's a mouthful to you. That's why you should starve yourself to death."

Mrs Armstrong shot Olivier a disapproving look, but was obviously not going to let such an insignificant comment spoil her happiness. "Of course we can," she said to Strongine. "What shall the nickname be?"

"Bessie," said Amue immediately.

Olivier groaned. "You're not serious, are you? Even Liz or Beth would be better."

"Come now, children," said Mr Armstrong, his beard twitching, "Amue made a fine suggestion, did she not?" He looked around questioningly.

Mrs Armstrong gave an approving nod, Amue clapped her hands and squealed in assent, Strongine shrugged and Alex glanced guiltily in Olivier's direction and gave the thumbs-up. Olivier remained motionless and glared fiercely at Amue.

"That seems to carry the vote," said Mr Armstrong.

Olivier's eyes snapped to him instead. "Father!"

"Is there a problem, Olivier?"

"Well, of course there is!"

"Sis, you don't have to call her that if you don't want to," said Alex unhelpfully.

"And I suppose that'll be easy, will it?"

Olivier did try to address her youngest sister by her full name, but since everyone else simply used 'Bessie', she found it rather difficult. Indeed, by the time the baby was a week old, 'Bessie' was constantly escaping Olivier's lips. In the end, she had to accept the horrible nickname, though frequent usage certainly didn't make it any more appealing to the ear.

Despite that, the more time Olivier spent with Bessie, the happier she felt, and when Mrs Armstrong said, "Now, I expect you to do your share of baby-sitting, Olivier. No doubt the experience will be useful when you have children of your own," she didn't complain and completely ignored the irrational comment. To her mother's delight, she bustled about each day changing sheets and diapers and reading stories and providing entertainment (mostly by showing off her combat skills). One evening, Mr Armstrong walked in on Olivier lashing about with a plastic sword and Bessie squealing in delight, and walked straight out again.

"Olivier has become more ladylike since her sister's birth, has she not?" he asked his wife.

Mrs Armstrong laughed as she peered into the room and caught a glance of Olivier's ridiculous sword. "Perhaps 'ladylike' isn't the correct word. Nevertheless, she has grown to love Bessie, I daresay, though she would most likely rather die than admit it. I doubt she has felt this sort of affection until now."

She was right. Though she tried not to show it, Olivier simply couldn't help but smile every time she looked into those blue eyes that were so full of innocence and mirth. She was so preoccupied with Bessie that she almost forgot to mourn her missed chance to learn alchemy. A general air of happiness radiated throughout the Armstrong mansion as summer cooled into autumn and autumn froze into winter.

But just when everything seemed perfect, the most terrible thing happened. On Christmas Eve, Mrs Armstrong fell ill, and Olivier, too worn out from festivities, went straight to bed without remembering to check on Bessie. The next morning she was awoken by maids shrieking that the baby wasn't breathing and that there was no sign of a pulse. A doctor was called and frantic measures were taken to revive her, but it was too late. Bessie was dead, all laughter drained from her once merry eyes.

Olivier stood stonily beside her family as Alex, Amue, most of the maids and even Strongine sobbed and blew their noses on each other's nightclothes. Mr and Mrs Armstrong, Posy and the dignified maids watched in sombre silence while Bessie's tiny body was carried from the room. Olivier tried her best to look tough for the sake of those too traumatized to do so, but the sea of emotions swirling inside her made her head feel as though it was about to explode, and she took her first chance to slip away and take refuge in her room.

So on Christmas Day, when everyone was supposed to be rejoicing and celebrating, the Armstrong mansion was a place of despair, and the air itself seemed heavy with tragedy and loss.

When Posy entered Olivier's room that night, Olivier sat at the foot of her bed, showing no sign of emotion or instability. Instead, she asked, "Why did it have to be her?"

Posy shook her head. "That's a mighty difficult question, Miss, one no one can answer. All we know is that this happens to babies sometimes, even though nothing seems to be wrong."

Olivier couldn't believe it. Bessie had just _died_; died before she'd learnt how to stand up on her chubby little feet; died before she'd had a chance to utter her first words – and yet no one knew why. "It's my fault, isn't it?" she said. "I didn't go into Mother's room to check on her last night."

"No, of course it ain't your fault, Miss!" cried Posy. "How could you say such a thing?"

"Tell me then, Posy," said Olivier, uncontrollable anger welling up inside her, "tell me why she died before she had an opportunity to grow up! Tell me why she died when she had barely begun to live!"

"Miss –"

"She was four months old," she said bitterly, to her clenched fists. "Four months old!" she screamed into the night, as she crossed the room and threw open the window.

But this was not a matter to cry over – she had to be far better than that to become a soldier.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

As time went on, the crushing weight on the Armstrong household was gradually released, and laughter returned to the mansion. Olivier, now fourteen, began to notice her budding figure and was greatly annoyed.

"Posy," she said, frowning at her reflection in the mirror, "I can see why people display such prejudiced attitudes towards women. I think perhaps men are simply men, and women are rather like trees."

"Trees!" exclaimed Posy. "Good heavens, child, where do these ideas of yours come from?"

"My logic," said Olivier. "Apples and oranges and pears grow on trees, don't they? They grow on women, too, as far as I'm concerned. Why, the old scullery maid clearly has a very large pair of pears."

"My goodness, Miss Olivier, mind your tongue!" Posy looked both appalled and amused. "Your wits have gotten you into enough trouble already."

Olivier shrugged. "I'm just pointing out the likeness between women and trees, which explains why I would rather not be a girl."

And she buttoned up her sleeves and walked stiffly out of the room.

Without Bessie to keep her busy, Olivier's jealousy of her brother grew steadily as the first buds announced the arrival of spring. She often eavesdropped on Alex's alchemy lessons and heard a few disjointed phrases – including 'a circle denotes the flow of power', and 'the three stages of alchemy are comprehension, deconstruction and reconstruction'. Alex seemed to understand her feelings and tried to teach her himself.

"So this is the circle that . . . what was the word?" he said one afternoon.

"Denotes," said Olivier, rolling her eyes. "Denotes the flow of power."

Alex stared at her. "How do you know?"

"I'm not stupid, unlike a certain someone." She stood up, purposely smudging the chalk circle on the floor. "This is a waste of time. I don't need alchemy. I can outdo you with my own hands."

"But alchemy is great!" protested Alex. "Look at what Father can do!"

"Alchemy is a form of cheating."

She had originally said that because she was jealous, but the more she thought about it, the truer it seemed. It wasn't exactly fair that some people could create gold out of a lump of trash while others couldn't. It wasn't fair that the so-called 'State Alchemists' of the military received all the fame while others struggled every day to earn their bread and butter.

So, driven by this new belief, Olivier surreptitiously borrowed a somewhat cheap sword from one of her father's subordinates and frequently snuck into her father's study to hunt for books about swordsmanship, hand-to-hand combat and military ranks and organisation. Then, armed with heavy, gold-bound volumes, she would sit on the red armchair beside the window and spend hours perusing information and diagrams and taking notes that she would later scrunch up and throw at her bedroom wall but still retrieve in the end. Soon she had grown so proficient at swordsmanship that she began to get tired of Alex's comparatively poor skills.

"You're completely hopeless!" she yelled one sweltering June afternoon, as the sun blazed in the cloudless blue sky, seemingly causing the grass in the garden to shrivel up and the clear, glistening water in the fountain to dry out.

Alex picked himself up gingerly, after being defeated for the ninth time in a row. He was covered with sweat. "I'm sorry, Sis."

"You ought to be! Now go train with Father until you're at least half as good as I am. In the meantime, I'll have to find another opponent. All thanks to you, Alex Louis Armstrong." She shot him a piercing glare and strode around the corner and out the front gate.

It was easier said than done. After asking around in practically every existing household and store and office, she was forced to accept that no one in the whole of Central City was the slightest bit interested in giving up their time to spar with a puny-looking teenage girl. As a last resort, she ended up paying a couple of dirty, rough street boys to sharpen her combat skills. Then, seeing that this really wasn't such a bad idea, she pounced on every tough-looking boy visible in every nook and cranny of the city and threatened to give the victim a bath if he refused her what she wanted. Needless to say, none of her 'opponents' was very keen on scrubbing a decade's worth of dirt and grime off his skin.

By late October, Olivier, though still heavy-hearted at times, had decided that if Bessie was able to somehow grow up and speak after her death, she wouldn't want Olivier to wallow in self-pity – and if she dared to, Bessie would scold her. So she trained and studied hard, and before long could defeat Alex in three seconds flat. But Alex, it transpired, had been mulling over an entirely different matter.

"Have you heard of human transmutation, Sis?" he asked excitedly. "Just imagine – we could –"

"I have heard that it is forbidden," said Olivier firmly. "If you want to try it, go ahead – I'll be sure to buy you a nice, cosy coffin."

Alex stared at her. "But Sis – since when have you been one to abide by rules?"

"This isn't a matter of rules, you idiot. It's a matter of life and death. Not to mention that you'll be screwing up the entire flow of the universe or something of the like." Turning, she muttered, "How stupid can people get these days?"

Though she didn't think or care about it at that point, if her father had heard their conversation, he would've said, "Oho, it is rather ironic that you, who have not taken a single alchemy lesson, know more about the subject than your brother."

In early November, however, as fiery leaves floated in the birdbath and settled on the grass, Olivier didn't seem to understand the 'flow of the universe' as well as she had, for it was then that her mother revealed another pregnancy. Olivier stood very still for a minute, before her temper made an appearance yet again.

"How could you, Mother?" she shouted. "How could you even – how could you dare to – why would you even think of doing such a thing?"

"Olivier –" Mrs Armstrong began.

But Olivier was already sprinting away. She hurtled down corridors and up flights of stairs and past maids with tea trays balanced on three fingers, before wrenching open a window on the top floor and climbing out onto the roof.

The air up here was cool and crisp, free from the thick fumes and rotting garbage of the city below. Olivier sat down on the cobwebbed roof tiles and smoothed her dress over her knees. The dry leaves in the gutter fluttered in the breeze. A streetlamp flickered, went out momentarily and came back on again.

Olivier inhaled deeply, trying to calm down. If she made any sudden movements, she would most likely tumble straight off the edge of the roof and land on the street like a lump of mashed potato. It wouldn't be pretty.

But even so, she couldn't stop thinking about her mother's unwise decision. Having another baby, so soon after Bessie's death! What would happen if this infant died too? Alex would probably attempt to transmute both of them, not to mention that a second tragedy would put the whole family through the same torture again.

"Why risk it?" she said aloud, through gritted teeth.

To her surprise, the question was answered. "Why? You would not understand, Olivier. You are still a child."

Olivier almost jumped out of her skin. Of all things, she had least expected her mother to follow her up to the roof. She swung round, and her surprise must have shown on her face, for Mrs Armstrong smiled and said, "Don't worry. I did this frequently in my youth."

She walked up to Olivier calmly and sat down beside her. Olivier still felt slightly alarmed that a pregnant woman was sitting on the roof of a four-storey mansion, but Mrs Armstrong seemed completely at ease.

Silence ensued. Olivier, whose anger had been temporarily overtaken by awkwardness, snuck a sideward glance at her mother. Unfortunately, her mother had been thinking exactly the same thing. Their eyes met, and Olivier felt a sudden urge to speak. "You must be a fool, Mother," she said.

Mrs Armstrong raised her eyebrows. "I may be, but I also may not be. Similarly, I cannot guarantee the survival of this baby, but nor can I guarantee his or her death."

"But Mother – given what happened last time, I'd say the odds are against you."

"Is that so?" Mrs Armstrong looked up at the sky, the moon reflecting in her thoughtful green eyes. "You're a capable mathematician, aren't you? How many of my children have survived?"

"Four," Olivier said without hesitation.

"And how many children have I had in total?"

"Five."

"Therefore, what is the fraction? The decimal? The percentage?"

"Four fifths. Zero point eight. Eighty per cent."

Mrs Armstrong smiled. "So the odds are seemingly _not_ against me, are they?"

Olivier said nothing. Her mother had a point, but she wasn't quite ready to accept that. Finding nothing else to do, she fixed her eyes firmly on two people leaning against an expensive-looking car in the street below. As she watched, the woman threw back her head and laughed while the man talked animatedly. Then, apparently seeing that the woman had let her guard down, the man grabbed her shoulders and kissed her. Olivier turned away hurriedly and resolved never to flirt unless she had good reason to.

Presently, her mother spoke again. "I understand that you do not want to believe it."

"Good," Olivier said huffily. "I'll save my breath then."

Her mother sighed. "Let me tell you something, Olivier. In this cruel world, awful things can happen. But we can't change the past, or prevent the inevitable from occurring. We must always keep our gaze focused on the present and the near future. Especially," she reached out and brushed Olivier's bangs out of her eyes, "if you want to pursue a career in the military."

Olivier shook her hair back over her face, the way she liked it. "Your point being?"

"Don't forget about the past, but all the same, don't linger on it for too long," said Mrs Armstrong simply. "Don't worry too much about the future. Think about your present actions, because what you do now is what matters most."

"I think we've drifted off the original subject," said Olivier. She stood up, carelessly loosening a few tendrils of hair that had gotten caught in her collar, and climbed back through the window.

Afterwards she acted as though she couldn't care less about her mother's words, but she never objected to the arrival of her to-be sibling again.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Every Christmas Eve, the famous Winter Ball took place at the Armstrong mansion. As this time of the year was approaching once more, the family began to make crucial preparations. Hallways were decked with holly, sooty fireplaces were cleaned thoroughly, a grand Christmas tree was dragged into the ballroom and decorated until it was on the verge of collapse, and invitations were sent out to respectable families all over Central City. The Armstrongs, of course, did not forget that Bessie had died nearly exactly a year ago, but vowed not to let this prevent the ball from running smoothly.

Meanwhile, Olivier was told that she was to attend the ball because she had just turned fifteen – the traditional age to be eligible to attend. Amue sulked and whined, but Olivier was more than happy for her vain sister to take her place – even if it meant the guests had to witness the unfortunate sight of Amue's overly large rump wobbling as she promenaded across the ballroom. Mr and Mrs Armstrong, however, would not hear of it, and requested that an expensive silk gown with matching gloves and heels be made, in order for their eldest daughter to make a good impression. The garments – when they arrived in a dainty little box – were revealed to be a soft pastel blue. There was also a sapphire necklace that – as Mrs Armstrong said – brought out the colour of Olivier's eyes.

"I've a good mind to run away again," said Olivier, scowling at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair – every single strand of it – had been pulled back in an elegant knot, and made her neck and shoulders feel very exposed. The bodice of her gown felt so light and floaty that it might not have been there if she wasn't looking at its reflection, her gloves were tight and restricted movement of her fingers, and the stiff corset gave her the impression that her midriff was being crushed until her ribcage shattered. The hour of the ball was approaching, and she felt uneasy.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, Miss," said Posy good-naturedly. She lifted the necklace from the box. "Just look at this splendid work of art! It brings out –"

"I don't want anything bringing out the colour of my eyes," said Olivier impatiently. "They stand out enough on their own."

Posy laughed. "Please let me finish my sentence, Miss. In actual fact, I was going to suggest that it brings out what your mood is likely to be when you're in the ballroom."

As usual, she was right. Precisely one minute after seven o'clock, Olivier slipped into the ballroom, trying not to be seen in the most humiliating assortment of garments she had ever worn. Her efforts, however, were sorely wasted, as her floaty attire took up more space than Amue's whole body and quickly caught the attention of strangers and acquaintances alike.

"Ah, so that's the eldest Miss Armstrong," a rather prissy-looking girl said loftily, glancing disdainfully in Olivier's direction.

"Why, your gown is simply resplendent, Miss," a young man commented.

"Fancy seeing you here, Miss Olivier!" exclaimed Pearl Cartwright, a girl whose father owned a manor that rivalled the size of Mr Armstrong's.

Olivier managed to shake off the guests after a few minutes of polite talk and minimal squabbling, and pretended to be interested in the new wine glasses that had been ordered. Fortunately, most of the guests had lost interest in her by then, enabling her to scan the room without being noticed.

It was a splendid sight indeed. The great mahogany pillars that supported the stairwells and walkways above had been polished and scoured, and now positively gleamed in the warm light provided by the overhanging chandeliers. Strings of holly and ivy intertwined about the banisters overhead, and the two fireplaces, piled high with crackling logs, roared at each end of the ballroom, their bright flames leaping and spitting. Olivier had a premonition that if the fire at the far end was allowed to burn with ever-increasing intensity, it would eventually set the piano and the Christmas tree ablaze.

She pushed the thought away and looked in the other direction. Circular tables draped in clean white cloth occupied this end of the room, and were to be laden with steaming dishes and ice-cold beverages later on in the evening. Presently the guests were alternately dancing to a slow waltz played by musicians Mr Armstrong had called in and accepting refreshments from waiters. Olivier was just contemplating trying to blend in with the crowd when her father came up behind her and gave her a little nudge on the shoulder.

"Olivier," he said, "I would like you to meet a colleague of mine." He gestured towards the man beside him. "This is Brigadier General Raven. He is a fine officer," (though Mr Armstrong's expression said otherwise) "and was most eager to make your acquaintance. Brigadier General," he addressed the stranger, "this is my eldest daughter Olivier."

"Honoured," said Raven. His voice was deep and somewhat desirous, though Olivier couldn't see why that would be – but it made a chill run down her spine all the same.

Raven extended his hand, but instead of simply holding it out for Olivier to shake, he stooped and planted a kiss on the back of Olivier's hand. The kiss seemed to linger for a bit too long for a mere greeting. Olivier's cheeks suddenly felt rather hot, and she hoped sincerely that it was her imagination.

_Honestly_, she thought. _He must be over forty! How inappropriate of him. _She stood simply glaring at him, trying not to be repelled by his sleek dark hair streaked with grey, and the faintest trace of wrinkles in his dark skin.

Finally Mr Armstrong said, "Come, Brigadier General, shall we both have a glass of champagne?"

Raven drew his eyes away from Olivier. "Why yes, of course. Your champagne is the finest in the whole city, I daresay."

Olivier threw a look of deep disgust at Raven's retreating figure and turned with the intention of escaping from the ballroom, but was stopped by a young man who asked her to dance and swept her into his arms before she could utter a denial. She had been taught how to dance, as her mother thought it compulsory, and the lad's movements were composed and coordinated, but the experience was far from enjoyable. Apart from Olivier's tomboyish beliefs that were against twirling around in a dress, she was worried that Raven was scrutinising her at this very moment.

But still the lad spun her around and around, and the music reached a crescendo and the room became a blur. She felt a tendril of hair slip free of the many pins and tickle her neck. She imagined Raven's eyes, full of desire, full of hunger . . .

With a jerk she pulled free, muttered a quick "Excuse me" and began to weave through the crowd. She couldn't stand it. Meeting Raven had made her realise that there was no shortage of men like him, and some of them were most likely present in her father's respectable mansion, talking laughing, getting drunk . . .

She climbed the stairs, careful to hold up her skirt, and escaped out onto the balcony. There she stood, taking gulps of the freezing night air, trying to clear her head. When she at last did, she could hardly believe how cowardly she had acted, running off like she had. She should have stayed – should have made some sort of impudent remark in response to Raven's actions. _This isn't Olivier Armstrong_, she thought furiously. _This isn't how I should act_.

She was on the point of storming back into the ballroom when quiet footsteps sounded behind her.

"We meet again, Miss Olivier." It was Pearl Cartwright. She wore a flimsy, scarlet gown, and her gold locks were set in elaborate curls around her thin face.

"I suppose I'm expected to say 'Yes, indeed, Miss Pearl'?"

"You should hardly be asking. However, I will overlook your rudeness just this once, perhaps."

Olivier fought hard not to roll her eyes. Pearl was only eighteen, but she often put on a dignified-lady act that rivalled Amue's. "Fine, but I'm not overlooking your measures to irritate me."

"Do as you please," said Pearl, clearly ruffled. "But one day you will be sorry."

Olivier didn't bother to reply. She just stared at the twinkling lights of the houses and streetlamps below, until Pearl broke the silence.

"You are still studying music, I hope?"

"No, of course not," Olivier replied – she had long since given up playing the piano. "My talents lie elsewhere."

Pearl frowned. "Indeed? I, on the other hand, am learning Mozart's great concertos. My father wishes me to become a distinguished pianist – he himself searched high and low for an orchestra willing to accompany me."

"Willing to accompany _you_?" Olivier scoffed. "Who in their right mind would want to have anything whatsoever to do with you?"

"Now, Miss Olivier, it matters not whether they want to – my father is a very respectable figure in society, and –"

"Pearl Cartwright, will you just listen for a minute? I don't understand why you would do anything simply because your father wants you to. Do you even have a brain of your own – a brain capable of making its own decisions?"

"Certainly I do! But I wish to be a reputable lady, and what my father wishes me to do is perfectly ladylike –"

Olivier turned sharply and strode past her, back inside the mansion. She took the stairs three at a time, thinking all the while that if she had stayed a second longer, her eardrums would've burst. A distinguished pianist! A reputable lady! She couldn't imagine why anyone would want to be a 'perfect lady'. It seemed, to her, the most tedious idea possible.

She marched into her room, shut the door behind her and bent down to examine herself in the mirror atop her dressing table. A scowling lass of fifteen stared up at her, looking disgruntled due to the clothes that had been forced onto her. Olivier straightened up and roughly pulled the numerous pins out of her hair. Tresses of palest blond cascaded down from the uncomfortable knot. She looked again.

Better, she decided, but not good enough. She unbuttoned her gown, stepped out of it, kicked off her shoes and ripped off her corset. She had no need to look at herself in her undergarments, but now that she knew she looked like herself again, she pulled on her nightclothes and sat on the edge of her bed.

And she thought. She thought about Pearl and the other refined ladies who were now enjoying a feast downstairs, about Raven and numerous other gentlemen, about the fact that she just did not fit in amongst these people. And she thought about Todd and Lucia, about muggers and kidnappers, about forests and rivers and wilderness, about trash cans and garbage heaps – and a little smile began to play on her lips. She didn't belong in a world of powder and lipstick and nail polish, of serving maids and butlers, of velvet armchairs and bed hangings – she was a girl of daring and peril, cut out for venturing out into the unknown.

And she gave the spinning top on her bedside table a little poke, lay down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, feeling content.

* * *

"Olivier," said Mr Armstrong at breakfast the next morning, "may I enquire where you disappeared off to at approximately eight o'clock last night?"

Olivier flashed a sugary smile at him. "Oh, I was merely tired, Father, so I retired to my room and unintentionally fell asleep."

"Indeed?"

"Don't you believe me, Father? If you don't, go ahead and punish me."

And she stood up and left the table, leaving Mr Armstrong wondering what on earth had put his daughter in such a good mood.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

The following year arrived, bringing with it the coldest and wettest winter Amestris had experienced for decades. Central City didn't get the worst of it, but the stinging winds and plummeting temperatures were still outside the residents' comfort zone. Suddenly all talk in pubs and cafes and even the military headquarters was more or less based around the extraordinary weather, and Olivier often heard it being contrasted with the conditions of the Great Desert that separated Amestris from the eastern country of Xing. She scorned the general lack of backbone present in the city, not to mention that the desert would doubtless be much worse for the faint-hearted fools around her.

February, much to everyone's surprise and delight, sent the mercury shooting back up. Olivier secretly thought that spring was coming early to welcome her new sibling into the world. Perhaps she was right, for in early March the garden had transformed from an almost blank page in a children's colouring-in book to a riot of colours, as though the child had scribbled and dotted everywhere with all the colours of the rainbow. And Catherine Elle Armstrong was born when everyone and everything was at its best and prettiest and most pompous.

She reminded Olivier rather too much of Bessie, though her hair was pale blond and her eyes emerald green, so Olivier feared she would meet the same fate. While the whole family was rejoicing, she thought hard, and suddenly stepped forward so quickly that Alex started.

"I don't like 'Catherine'," she said, addressing the baby. "Whatever anyone else says, I'm going to call you 'Cath'. You'll die if you have a girly name."

"Olivier!" cried Mrs Armstrong. "How awful of you to say that!"

"Indeed? Would it be less awful if I stuck with 'Catherine' and she died, Mother?"

"I would prefer not to discuss such matters, Olivier. What a troublesome lass you are! It's a wonder I haven't left you to starve on the streets."

It was a joke, but it still stung. Olivier left the birthing room, yearning for fresh air and time to think. Instead she ran into Pearl Cartwright barely two feet away from the Armstrongs' wrought iron gate. Pearl's gold locks were styled in a more casual way today – the curls above her ears were pinned up, and the rest bobbed about her shoulders in a lively fashion. If only she herself was half as lively.

Greatly annoyed by her sudden appearance, Olivier smiled venomously and said with mock politeness, "Good morning, _Miss _Pearl. What business have you here today?"

"None at all," said Pearl in a very ruffled sort of way. "I was merely passing by. Though now that you mention it, perhaps I do have a little something to announce. Have you, by any chance, heard my delightful news?"

"Why now, do I have any reason to? I don't listen to rumours, especially ones concerning self-indulgent, pompous ladies."

Pearl's fair skin took on a pinkish tinge. "Well, I am not talking about rumours. I am talking about fact. And the fact is that I am to be wedded to Major Havelock, a returned soldier from the Aerugo skirmish."

"In other words, a cripple," said Olivier nastily. She immediately wished she hadn't said it. After all, she might end up as a cripple one day, if she became a soldier. Who knew? Besides, it wasn't like her to discriminate.

"He is not a cripple!" said Pearl, with as much dignity as she could muster with a beet red face and clenched fists. "For your information, being a returned soldier does not automatically mean you had half your limbs blown off by a landmine. The major simply wished not to work in the military after the border war. He was awarded a medal for bravery just before he left." Pearl puffed out her chest, as though she was the one who had earned the medal.

"And I suppose you're marrying him for his money? He must have a lot, judging by what he's done. Though I don't see why you would need any more money than you already have."

"Says someone whose father is a general in the army," said Pearl enviously.

"Is that so? Well, unlike _your _father, mine doesn't allow me much money at all. You're far too spoilt. And if you've got nothing else to say, I'll be going now. Good day to you, _Miss _Pearl."

Olivier spent the rest of the morning roaming around shops and cafes, sipping coffee here and arguing about politics there. She had grown quite popular at a pub called The Shotgun, where she never got drunk or even touched any form of liquor, but had lengthy discussions with customers, catching on to whichever topic was of interest that day. This was a pastime she particularly enjoyed, as it allowed her to speak her mind and act in any way she liked, whereas at home she was forced to wear hair ribbons and button her collar and eat with a knife and fork. Today the pub was unusually quiet and subdued, so she decided to start a conversation herself.

"I hear the snotty Pearl Cartwright is to be married," she said to a man who didn't look too wasted.

"Yeah, it's not hard to hear about such things, what with her going around boasting to anyone who'll listen. Still, ain't my business what you rich folk do." He took a swig from a bottle.

"Isn't she despicable, though?" Olivier prompted him. "Personally, I don't see why any woman with a mind of her own would give herself up to some dirty, self-centred idiot who trims his toenails twice a year at most. No offence to you guys," she added, glancing around at the men gathered around the rotting wooden tables. The air was full of liquor fumes.

One man with a shaggy black beard chuckled. "Well, young Armstrong, you'll see that not all men are like us. Then again, most of them are, so your chances of seeing one who's not are very slim."

The pub erupted in raucous laughter. The bearded man smirked at the other customers, threw back his head and tipped the contents of his glass down his throat. Half the beer ran down his beard and soaked his trousers.

"What's gotten into you people today?" said Olivier in disgust. "Usually you have more sense, even when you're drunk." She knew perfectly well that most men were not dirty and self-centred, and didn't appreciate theses drunkards treating her like an innocent flower bud that had just opened its petals to the world.

When she finally got tired of the men's company, she dragged herself back along busy roads and through silent alleyways until the Armstrong mansion loomed into view, silhouetted against the darkening sky. She hoped to gorge herself on roast chicken and tomato soup and then have a nice long shower, but her mother ushered her into the living room.

"We – that is, our family – have been invited to Pearl Cartwright's wedding," she said, brandishing a flimsy piece of paper bordered with pink ribbons. "Now, I expect you to attend, Olivier, as declining the privilege would be very impolite –"

"You expect me to _what_?" said Olivier rather rudely.

"You heard me, Olivier. You, your father and myself will go, but I think it best to leave the others at home. Alex will be in charge of Catherine, as Amue and Strongine have expressed a strong desire not to be burdened with this task."

Olivier opened her mouth to object, but Amue pranced into the room and wailed, "Oh, Mother, can't I go?"

"No, you most definitely may not go," said Mrs Armstrong firmly. "After the incident at Miss Babington's birthday party, I'm surprised I allow you to do anything at all."

"What happened at Miss Babington's birthday party?" asked Olivier, interested.

"I found a spider in my tea and overturned the table," said Amue defensively. "It was an accident! You know I'm scared of spiders!"

"I know you're an idiot." Olivier rolled her eyes.

She had hoped that this change of topic would cause her mother to forget about the wedding, but Mrs Armstrong was adamant. So Olivier was going, and that was final.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I really enjoyed writing this chapter – part of it is written from Alex's POV, which I thought would be fun to try from the very beginning. Even though this story focuses mainly on Olivier, switching perspectives isn't entirely irrelevant, since Alex's actions in this chapter lead to some important character development on Olivier's part (as you shall see).**

**Hopefully you enjoy reading it, too!**

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

Olivier thought she was very much doomed, but most surprisingly, Pearl Cartwright's wedding was delayed five months (due to various reasons) – during which time Olivier rambled on and on about being enrolled in the military academy in Central, and did it so much and so frequently that her parents finally consented. She was happy, but despite half a dozen long speech sessions at the dinner table, the one thing Mr and Mrs Armstrong wouldn't do was allow Olivier to stay home while they went to Pearl Cartwright's wedding.

After two months of a summer so hot it could have melted the Armstrong sword had it been left in the open, the weather cooled in mid-August and provided perfect conditions for a wedding. Olivier had hoped it could have stayed hot, for then there was a chance that Pearl's wedding ring would melt and spoil everything, but sadly that didn't happen.

For such a special occasion, Mrs Armstrong ordered another blue dress for Olivier to wear. This one was many shades darker and looked noticeably more substantial – Mrs Armstrong insisted that the last one had made Olivier seem too 'flimsy'. Olivier didn't like the comment or the dress – for that was her general attitude towards dresses – but she was relieved that the dress didn't take up a square mile or have floaty sheets of silk. She secretly hoped that when she became a soldier, she'd never have to touch, let alone wear, a dress again.

"Ah, I see your parents are finally accepting that you'll never be a true lady," said Posy on the morning of the wedding day. She stepped back and peered at Olivier's reflection in her bedroom mirror. "You look rather dangerous, I reckon. Ain't that right, Miss?"

Olivier grinned. Now that Posy mentioned it, she saw that it was true. This time, it wasn't the dress that matched the colour of her eyes. It was as though her eyes had deepened in colour to match the dress. And she liked it. "Well, I have to look dangerous in front of Pearl Cartwright, don't I? That girl needs to learn a few things."

"Exactly the point, Miss," said Posy, her eyes glinting momentarily. Then she reached up and straightened Olivier's hairpin. "Have a good time. I won't be here either – I have flowers to sell." With a last encouraging smile, she walked out of the room.

An hour later, Olivier found herself in an elaborately decorated carriage, forced to sit in a horrible ladylike position opposite her parents. The seat was dark red velvet – as were the curtains and apparently everything else. Olivier glanced out the window and saw Alex waving to her. She stuck her head out of the carriage.

"Remember, you're in charge of Cath," she shouted, forgetting that ladies weren't supposed to raise their voices. "Useless little brother." She felt a little twist of fear as she sat down again, but pushed it away. What could possibly happen?

* * *

Two minutes later the carriage took off, and Alex watched it go with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He would be left with Amue, Strongine, Catherine and the silent maids for almost the entire day – the wedding was scheduled to begin at noon and the reception sometime in the early evening, with a few hours in between. Amue and Strongine vexed him, but he didn't like to say so. These were his parents' orders, and he knew better than to disobey them.

Amue ran at him the moment he returned to the mansion. "Oh, Alex, play the piano for us!" she said, batting her eyelids.

"But –"

"Please? Me and Strongine are older than you, so you should listen to us." Amue crossed her arms, looking smug.

Alex sighed. "You're supposed to say 'Strongine and I'," he corrected her. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass himself in front of his sisters, but he didn't want to face Amue when she was angry. The fact that she was bigger than him – and that was saying something – didn't favour him whatsoever. So he gave in.

He, Amue and Strongine trooped into the music room on the second floor. Alex sat down at the piano, running his stubby fingers over the black and white keys, and began to play. He had never liked music lessons much, for while his hands were large, his fingers were rather beefy and clumsy, but since his parents had insisted that he take them, he'd proceeded to do so just to please them. Olivier, on the other hand, would probably have done much better if she'd tried, but nothing could be done about her stubborn streaks.

Amue bent over the keys until her nose was almost touching Alex's hands. Alex flushed – he felt very uncomfortable when people stared intently at him as he played – and the notes began to blur. Amue whimpered in a bothered sort of way and pushed him off his seat.

"Alex!" she cried, throwing up her hands in apparent despair. "Haven't you practised lately? This – this piece – isn't supposed to have . . . dis – diss . . ."

"Dissonance," said Alex resignedly, as Amue's brow furrowed, making her look somewhat like a troll. "Please, just don't make me do something I'm horrible at."

Amue looked thoroughly dejected for a moment – then her face brightened again. "I know!" she said, clapping her hands. "Show us some alchemy! Don't you want to see what he's learnt, Strongine?"

Strongine, who had been huddled in a corner and who hadn't said a word, merely grumbled something about wanting egg rolls. Amue scoffed at her lack of enthusiasm.

"Well, I don't care! I want to see it!"

So Alex was pushed and yanked out one of the back doors and into the garden. Amue's first request was: "Turn the birdbath into gold!"

Alex sighed and patiently told her that he wasn't allowed to, and most likely couldn't at his current standard. "Well then, make some decorations around it!" said Amue immediately, obviously refusing to give in.

Alex, feeling that it was hopeless to think of a valid excuse to get out of this embarrassing pickle, carefully drew a transmutation circle on the edge of the birdbath with a piece of chalk. He placed a hand on it, there was a flash of blue light and a puff of smoke, and a miniscule version of Amue's head appeared, protruding awkwardly from the stone structure. Amue gave a scream of delight and spent about fifteen minutes admiring herself, until Alex said firmly that he had to change it back. When he did, however, Amue had another idea.

"How about Strongine's head? Make that too."

Alex complied, but he thought he was probably feeling more annoyed than he ever had in his life. Strongine didn't look too happy with the stone replica of her head, either. She frowned deeply and looked as though she would very much like to destroy the birdbath with her fists. So Alex quickly turned it back to normal again.

And so it went on. During the course of the day, Amue broke three teacups, thought her hair ribbon was a snake and spent half an hour running away from it, and almost brought a whole shelf down as she tripped over a coffee table. Strongine unhesitatingly chopped a cockroach in half because she happened to have a pair of scissors at hand and ate nearly everything in the pantry. Alex tried to control them.

Consequently, they all forgot about their very important duty, and the maids were too busy cowering in bathrooms and fireplaces because 'the second-eldest Miss Armstrong was running amok'.

* * *

By the time Olivier got out of the carriage at the Armstrong mansion, night had well and truly fallen. She felt sticky and sweaty and very irritated. Pearl Cartwright hadn't lost any of her haughtiness even after she'd become Pearl Havelock, and Olivier had vented her annoyance by stuffing herself with steak and potato salad and fried fish and strawberry cheesecake until she'd been fit to burst. Now her corset felt even more uncomfortably tight than it usually was.

She marched up the front steps with the intention of taking a nice long bath and hoping her frustration would evaporate and drift away along with the steam, but she didn't get the chance. She was met with confused shouts and hurried movement as she pulled the front door open and slipped inside.

"What's happened?" she demanded of a frightened-looking maid, who shook her head and dashed away. Olivier made to chase after her, but a hand on her arm held her back. It was Posy.

"I only just got back myself, Miss," she said, "but according to the missus, no one remembered to feed Miss Catherine. She was all alone in her crib all day, crying her eyes out."

Olivier stared at her in disbelief – then she shook her arm free and tore up the stairs. On the landing she saw her mother looking more furious than Olivier had ever seen her, and Alex cowering against the banister.

"How could you be so careless?" Mrs Armstrong exploded. "I trusted you, Alex! After what happened last time, how could you simply _forget_?"

"I'm sorry," said Alex meekly, tears running down his cheeks. "I'm really sorry, Mother."

"What I'd like to know is how you three managed to provoke the maids so!" Mrs Armstrong swivelled around to hurry downstairs and spotted Olivier standing frozen, with one foot in the air.

Olivier opened her mouth, but Mrs Armstrong, knowing exactly what was going on in her daughter's mind, said quickly, "She's fine. The maids are tending to her." Then she hastened down to the ground floor.

Olivier was left alone on the landing with her sobbing brother. She felt unusually calm, as though she was the one in control this time. "You moron," she tried to shout, but there was an unnatural lack of anger in her voice.

Alex looked up, his ice-blue eyes wide and his face tear-stained. He was clearly waiting for the outburst.

It didn't come. Instead Olivier pulled all the accessories out of her hair to give her hands something to do, and the thick blond mop tumbled down her back. She was as confused as Alex looked. Why wasn't she shouting at him? Catherine could have died! She looked up at her brother again. And suddenly she knew.

"You know, you're just about the stupidest person I've ever met," she said, carelessly lobbing her hair accessories over the banister, one by one. "I never understood why Mother and Father didn't get angry at you, even when you'd done something wrong. But now Mother's yelled at you, hasn't she? You know what that means?"

Alex shook his head, looking more befuddled than ever.

"We're even," said Olivier, grinning. "I'll never get jealous of you again. You're just as bad as I am, really."

Alex's jaw dropped, but before he could get as much as a syllable out, Olivier had wrestled him to the ground. She pinned him down on the cold, hard floor and yelled, triumphantly, "Now it's your turn to be jealous! You'll never beat me in a fight! How's that?"

Alex burst out laughing. Olivier gave him a look of disgust and leapt off him immediately, but even she couldn't help smiling as she made her way to the most luxurious bathroom.

Perhaps some bad things really could end in a good way.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

When autumn arrived, fiery and bright, Olivier was all packed and ready to begin training at the military academy. She'd passed every test thrown at her when she'd enrolled – with distinction – and couldn't be more confident and at ease. After all, how many cadets were fortunate enough to have been born into the reputable Armstrong family?

Meanwhile, the inhabitants of the mansion were up to their noses (standing on the top floor) in tears because Amue had seemingly superhuman lacrimal glands. Olivier was extremely bothered, as Amue had attempted to bully her in her childhood but now bawled every time she did or was about to do something dangerous. To Olivier's relief, Alex did not contribute too much salt water to the flood.

On the first day of the term, Olivier's family accompanied her to the train station so that she could board a train to the specifically built site for basic training – which would last for ten weeks. Then she would spend the remainder of the four years required at the academy itself. She hadn't exactly expected anyone else to see her off, so she was rather surprised when Pearl Cartwright – now Pearl Havelock – positively strutted up to her through the billowing steam.

"I highly doubt we will ever like each other very much, Miss Olivier," she said, looking reproachfully down at Olivier, "but you've chosen your way, and I've chosen mine. I will absolutely abhor you if you don't stick your head straight in the mud and bear it – even more if you stumble back with your limbs snapped in half."

Olivier smirked. "I think that either way, you will abhor me. Now that you've threatened me, I will no doubt stick my head in the mud and give you a nice big hug afterwards. Look forward to it, Madam Havelock."

As Pearl stomped away, her pride tarnished as a result of having her own words thrown back at her, Mrs Armstrong said, "Behave yourself, Olivier," and waved as the train took off. The ride took a couple of hours, and when the train stopped and Olivier looked out the window, she couldn't refrain from drawing in a sharp breath.

If she had thought she'd had it tough on her brief journey to the North, she couldn't have been more mistaken. This was not a forest.

It was a jungle.

It was a deep, rippling sea of green as far as the eye could see. The only building in the vicinity was an ancient-looking stone castle. At least, that was the name that popped into Olivier's head the moment her eyes fell on it. It was large and imposing, complete with turrets and battlements which were charcoal grey. This, she was told, was to be the cadets' barracks.

Her heart thumped in anticipation as she stepped off the train and onto the platform. This was really it! She was going to learn to use a rifle and go on pretend missions and camouflage herself as a very violent tree . . . and she was sure the Armstrong sword would soon be hers. The very thought of strolling about with the gleaming weapon in its sheath strapped to her waist . . .

She made her way to the nearest castle courtyard, as she had been instructed, and forced her brain to focus on the present, not rush ahead of itself, visualising irrational things. Fifty other young men and women were assembled in the courtyard, and from their behaviour and expressions Olivier could immediately tell that most of them were very nervous. _Pathetic_, she thought.

There was an unoccupied bench at one end of the courtyard – like everything else, it was made of cold, hard stone – and Olivier, not wanting to strike any alliances that would eventually backfire on her, sat down on it and attempted to look as hostile and unapproachable as she could. Being Olivier, this hardly required any effort; but that is not to say that it kept every one of the cadets at a safe distance. Certainly most of them were either scared off or did not notice her at all – but there was one, it seemed, who was very bold or very ignorant. Or perhaps both.

Olivier frowned as her hands, which were folded in her lap and which she had been intently studying, were suddenly cast into shadow. She did not look up, but waited for the stranger to speak. The stranger, perhaps put off by her attitude, seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then . . .

"You know, you look a bit like a walnut shell."

Olivier didn't know what she had been expecting, but it most definitely hadn't been the high-pitched, dulcet tones of a girl. And she certainly hadn't been expecting such a cheekily uttered comment concerning her looks. Normally she didn't care an ounce for her appearance, but when a girl, and worse, a complete stranger, made this extraordinarily demeaning remark about her without the slightest bit of discomfiture, her blood boiled.

Still not looking up, she asked coolly, "How so?"

"Well," said the stranger, seeming not at all uncertain about continuing the conversation, "you pinch your lips together in a certain way – see, you're doing it again! – and you screw up your forehead so much it goes wrinkly. Just like a walnut shell. Smile for once, couldn't you? I think you'd be rather pretty if you did." When Olivier stayed silent, the girl became impatient. "All right, I know I teased you, but you needn't hold it against me just because I'm Ishvalan!"

That did it. Olivier's head shot up. She hadn't expected this revelation, either. The stranger before her was undoubtedly from the small, prejudiced region in the East. She was a tiny girl (even when she was towering over Olivier) with a flowing sheet of pale hair that flashed blindingly in the sun, large red eyes that were at present narrowed in indignation, and dark skin. She could have passed as a twelve-year-old, but Olivier noticed that she did have a bit of a figure, suggesting that the two girls were about the same age.

"That wasn't my intention," said Olivier, a little coldly.

"Oh, but I'm no fool," said the girl. "I know how everyone sees Ishvalans."

"Well then, your definition of 'everyone' is a bit flawed," Olivier countered, anger creeping into her voice. "For one, I would never consciously discriminate. My mother would slap me."

"I suppose you come from one of those respectable families in Central?"

"Of course. The Armstrong family."

"The Armstrong family?" The girl's antagonism was instantly replaced by curiosity. "You don't mean to say you're Olivier Armstrong, the girl who ran away from home?"

"What?" said Olivier sharply, losing her cool for a moment. "Does everyone know about that?"

The girl laughed then, seeming delighted at having caught Olivier off guard. "I think _your_ definition of 'everyone' is a bit flawed, Miss Armstrong. Almost no one knows about it, actually. Only my mother and my brother and me, and your family, I suppose. My mother told me about it."

"And how does she know?"

"Well, you met her, remember? You found my brother's horse in the forest, and then my mother saw you gulping a whole fountain down. I'm her daughter, Ruby Bennett."

Olivier started. "What did you say your name was?"

"Ruby Bennett."

It was at this precise moment that the drill sergeant, a big man with a big moustache, who Olivier hadn't noticed until now, blew his whistle and ordered the cadets to stand facing him and pay careful attention while he took attendance. Olivier's name was one of the first to be called, her surname beginning with the first letter of the alphabet, and after this she tuned out and watched the tiny Ishvalan girl, who stood towards the front of the group and a bit towards the right, with attentive interest. So this was Ruby Bennett. Olivier couldn't deny that she had thought about Mrs Bennett's adopted daughter a fair bit since meeting the woman – it wasn't every day that an Amestrian adopted an Ishvalan child, after all. And now it was clear that Mrs Bennett hadn't been lying. Olivier's respect towards her grew.

Ruby was easily the smallest person in the group of cadets. If she had been standing directly in front of Olivier, she would have been invisible, concealed by a cluster of burly, seemingly formidable boys. As it was, only a sliver of her hair and the left half of her body were able to be seen from Olivier's position; she wondered if the girl would be tall enough to graduate in four years' time. This was why the majority of short people didn't enrol in military academies in the first place.

Meanwhile, the drill sergeant had confirmed that no one was absent and was giving a tedious, lengthy lecture regarding site rules and the nature of the activities the cadets would be participating in. He walked around the group as he did so, and once Olivier saw his eyes rake over Ruby's figure and his head make an almost imperceptible movement to each side. _That girl is doomed_, she thought dully.

"Now," barked the drill sergeant, making everyone jump, "look over here for a moment." He indicated to the centre of the courtyard, where there was a large pile of black duffel bags. "This is your first exercise. Each bag in the pile is labelled with a cadet's name, and contains what the cadet needs over the course of ten weeks. You must all locate your respective bags within two minutes. Then you will line up in alphabetical order and I will send you off to your quarters to prepare for tomorrow's activities. Any questions?"

There were a few, but Olivier wasn't listening. She was thinking hard. Fifty duffel bags, identified and claimed in two minutes! How were they going to manage that? The boys were doubtless going to quarrel and beat each other up, and then where would they be?

The drill sergeant gave them a short while to 'sort themselves out', and then held up his stopwatch and shouted, "Start now!"

There was a mad rush towards the pile. The bigger ones, evidently having no regard for others, pushed the smaller ones out of the way, and girls like Ruby found themselves in the midst of a war in which the only weapons were fists and duffel bags. Olivier stayed out of the crossfire, knowing too well what would happen if she did otherwise, and looked around for a bag labelled with her name. This being too difficult, what with bags, insults and even people being thrown around, she shook her head and scowled at the ground.

Suddenly she heard something whistling through the air. Something black and bulky. She reached out her hands and caught it, seeing at once that 'O. Armstrong' was written on it. Ruby's head popped out from behind the fray, and the silly lass gave Olivier a thumbs-up.

"Time's up!" screeched the drill sergeant. "Throw your bags back into the pile. We will try that again." The handful of people who had managed to get hold of their bags grudgingly parted with them again. Olivier tossed hers with the rest and took note of where it landed. Then, struck suddenly by an idea, she marched to the front of the group.

"Look," she said, trying to sound authoritative. "At this rate, we'll be here till tomorrow morning. We need a strategy. So this is what we'll do. Everyone will stand in a circle around the pile. I'll pick up the bags, one by one, and call out the names with which they're labelled. The owners will come forward – no one else. Agreed?"

Some of the cadets exchanged glances and shrugged. Others laughed. Olivier didn't care.

"Are you ready?" called the drill sergeant. "Go!"

To Olivier's surprise, all the cadets followed her instructions. Not without some pushing and shoving, they made a circle around the bags, which allowed everyone a clear view.

She picked up a bag. "M. Parker," she said clearly, dropping it onto the ground in front of her. A girl from the other side of the circle approached, but a boy standing near Olivier grabbed the bag. The girl hesitated.

In a flash Olivier was in front of the boy. He was taller than her. She was reminded of her encounter three years ago with Pat Bennett in the suburb of Mitron. This boy, however, although about the same height, was twice as wide as Ruby's brother. But no matter.

"What do you think you're doing?" said Olivier, glaring up at him. "Do you want to go without food and sleep until tomorrow?"

A couple of cadets, most likely the boy's friends, laughed uproariously. The corners of the boy's mouth twitched. "And what do you think _you're _doing, little lady? Think you can control us all?"

"Yes," said Olivier.

The boy smirked. "Prove it." Probably he was expecting her to go on a long rant, which would ultimately waste more time and give him more reason to mock her.

Olivier didn't say a word.

She kicked him in the unmentionables.

So much the worse for her unfortunate victim: this time she was no longer a child driven to desperate measures for fear of being kidnapped.

The boy's reaction was, predictably, rather uncivil and somewhat exaggerated. Olivier wondered if it really hurt so much – but then again, she had never experienced the ailments of the opposite gender. Perhaps being a girl had its advantages, to a certain extent. Which was worse, sensitive glands or monthly waterfalls?

"Let us continue," she said, trying not to get distracted, "provided no one else has any . . . objections." The boy she had kicked didn't dare interfere again, but there was a look in his eyes that told her the matter wasn't over just yet. Ignoring him, she began to resume her task of passing out the bags. They didn't make it in time. Olivier made a mental note to give the boy a black eye and a nosebleed when she had the chance.

After two more attempts, they finally succeeded. A wild cheer rose from the group, and some cadets even went as far as to thump Olivier on the back and throw their arms around her briefly. She wore her usual scowl, but she had to admit she was rather proud of herself.

"A moment, Armstrong, if you don't mind," said the drill sergeant, as the cadets moved towards the barracks. Olivier was pulled aside. The drill sergeant pursed his lips. "I commend you for your efforts, but next time it would be better not to resort to violence. You have been warned. Don't do it again."

"Yes, sir."

The drill sergeant turned away and did not see the glow of rebellion flash across her eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

**Hey guys! Sorry about the delay. I would say I was busy, but that would be a lie. Well, I **_**was**_** busy some of the time, but that was a consequence of prolonged procrastination. The real reason I took so long writing this is that I was . . . um . . . watching far too much **_**Les Mis **_**and **_**Princess Tutu. **_**You know when you're really obsessed with something? When you're really REALLY obsessed with something? Yeah. That. For countless days in a row I sat down at the computer to write, but then I started watching stuff, and when you start watching something really addictive you can't stop. **

**Anyway, enough of that. The important thing is that Ch. 17 is here. I wasn't originally planning to include this little scene, but . . . well, you get strange whims when you write. So there you are. Enjoy! XD**

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

Olivier lay on her back in the small, draughty room, which was, like everything else, made of stone that sent a chill through one's whole body when touched. Her eyes were closed, but she could not fall asleep. The slow, steady breathing, plus the occasional snore, of her fellow cadets seemed magnified tenfold in the darkness. Olivier pinched her lips together, partly out of habit and partly out of mild irritation. How could all nine of them possibly have fallen sound asleep, and so quickly? The majority of those gutless lasses had been alternately trembling from head to foot and jumping out of their skins a couple of hours ago. Or perhaps the minimal effort of collecting duffel bags and preparing for lights-out had exhausted them already. She frowned, still with her eyes closed. Surely not. That was a bit rich, even for them. Anyhow, she was positively bursting with energy.

She shifted under the meagre blanket and thought about the enemy she had already made. Pratt, his name was. A burst of scornful laughter bubbled up inside her, and for a moment her vocal cords and her diaphragm were engaged in a furious battle. Then it passed. She lay on her side with a twisted smile on her lips. Pratt. Prat. It seemed logical.

Snap!

Her eyes shot open. Heart pounding, she craned her neck forward, trying to make as little movement as possible while attempting to penetrate the thick blanket of darkness with her limited human vision.

Then she jerked up instinctively. There was a dark shape at the foot of her bed. It wasn't moving. But it was definitely something living. She stared at it, not trusting herself to make a sound.

"Psst!"

The shape, from which the noise had apparently emanated, disentangled itself and raised its head, revealing a pair of round eyes that glowed like jewels. Like rubies.

Olivier started. Ruby? Sitting bolt upright, she hissed, "What in the name of Amue's rump are you doing?"

The eyes blinked, disappeared and rematerialised, this time so that the moonlight from the window behind Olivier's bed illuminated the dark face of Ruby Bennett, who now stood upright. "Who's Amue?" the girl whispered inquiringly.

"Never mind that," said Olivier in the same tentative undertone. "What are you doing?"

"Conversing with you at present," said Ruby, grinning and plonking herself unceremoniously on the bed. Then, seeing the look on Olivier's face, she amended, "Well, I was about to die of boredom, so I came to find company. You can't possibly imagine how hard it was to –"

"Locate my bed?" said Olivier sarcastically.

"To crawl over here without being seen or heard," said Ruby, annoyance flickering across her face. "Some of these trolls are awfully light sleepers, you know. A single snore from one of them is enough to make you run for cover. It's worse than thunder in a particularly bad storm."

At this point, Olivier was finding it very difficult not to be amused. She made one last effort, however. "Be that as it may, has it ever occurred to you that I mightn't be the best company around here?"

"And then I almost tripped over someone's duffel bag because it was lying in the middle of the floor like a great big – what, do you think I'd be better off running to the drill sergeant and offering to twist his moustache into ringlets?"

"Perhaps," said Olivier brusquely. "I'm not familiar with your tendencies."

"Well, maybe you should work on becoming acquainted with them, Miss Armstrong." Ruby smiled. She looked such a genuine, innocent figure then, seated on the bed with her legs tucked beneath her, pale hair spilling over her shoulders and onto the creased bedclothes: hair which served well to conceal the coarse, green nightshirt assigned to all the cadets.

Olivier's predominating sentiment as of now was that of overwhelming perplexity. Truth be told, she had never had much social interaction with other girls her age, save Pearl Havelock and the various pompous ladies at her father's parties. She had spent her whole life talking politics with grown men in pubs, and consequently had no idea how to have a proper conversation with someone like Ruby. Nor had anyone ever attempted to strike up a friendship with her. In short, she was bewildered, but also slightly intrigued by Ruby's eagerness.

Ruby must have sensed some of this, because her smile widened, albeit rather imperceptibly due to the darkness. "You know, I get the feeling you're far better company than most of the racist pigs in here," she said, casting a contemptuous glance in the general direction of the other cadets snoring in their beds. "Did you see the looks some of them gave me? Their noses were flared up like showerheads – not that I've seen one, so I wouldn't know. In that case, I suppose I'll just settle with pig snouts, although that's not the most innovative simile I've come up with."

"Showerheads aren't that far off," Olivier couldn't help saying.

Ruby's eyes lit up. "Really? Thanks." Then she added, "Some people have no appreciation for the language arts these days."

"Agreed." Olivier glanced at the door, and it struck her that it must be quite late. "Anyhow, the drill sergeant said he's check on us at various times tonight, so unless you want to get caught . . ."

"Oh! That's right." Ruby made to stand up, but changed her mind and leaned down again to say, "By the way, nice tactics with the duffel bags earlier today." She smiled and retreated, quiet as a mouse.

When the drill sergeant poked his head through the doorway a few minutes later, armed with a flashlight, all the beds in the room were occupied, and he observed nothing that was amiss in the slightest.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

A few weeks passed at basic training without serious incident. Olivier quickly adjusted to the demanding lifestyle of a soldier without so much as a word of complaint, and by the end of the first week had proved herself capable of both physically and mentally challenging activities. The drill sergeant was most impressed and flattered, but the other cadets regarded her with envy and loathing. Ruby was her sole companion and appointed buddy (the cadets could only travel away from the castle in pairs). Despite her physical disadvantage, Ruby seldom made a fuss about anything in particular, which suited Olivier just fine.

At the start of the second week, the antagonism towards Olivier reached a peak. The boys, unable to outdo her during training, sought another means to put her down. At dinner one evening, a gang formed and led by Pratt, unsurprisingly, confronted Olivier at her table in a corner of the dining room, where she habitually sat to avoid notice. She pretended not to see them and took her time licking her spoon with relish. When she finally looked up, they had gone. She shot a questioning glance at Ruby beside her, who shrugged.

The next day it was evident what the boys had come for. They had apparently taken liberal efforts to scrutinise her and to derive an offensive nickname on the basis of her appearance. When the drill sergeant led the cadets on a practice march around the courtyard, there was a burst of loud whispering at the back of the group. It was so unsynchronized that Olivier couldn't make out what they were saying, but she knew it was aimed at her. Later she questioned Ruby about the matter.

"It's awfully stupid," said Ruby dismissively. "To be honest, I thought even they were capable of coming up with something slightly wittier. But no, they're obviously too dim."

"Well, what is it?"

"Fat-lippier."

Olivier stopped in the middle of the courtyard and stared at her. Then she snorted derisively. "That's it?"

"That's it. See, I knew you wouldn't care. That's why I told you straight out."

Indeed, Olivier didn't care a bit – until the boys started saying the name so frequently that she found it hard to concentrate on the set tasks; and what annoyed her even more was their tendency to append the silly foreign accent to the end of the nickname. At the end of the third week she finally snapped.

"For God's sake!" she exploded during the period of free time allotted to the cadets every evening. She and Ruby were the only ones in their dormitory. Ruby was perched on the edge of Olivier's bed. When Olivier stood up suddenly and yelled out those three words, she raised her head with a mildly interested expression on her face.

"You have a god? I didn't think you were the religious type."

Olivier shot her a piercing glare. "I'm not even going to bother with you today. I swear on my life I will get that numbskull back. I need to conserve my energy and figure out how."

Ruby suddenly looked alert. "Pratt?"

"Who else?"

"Ah," said Ruby, her eyes gleaming with something Olivier couldn't fathom, "I think I might be able to help you with that."

"Indeed? How?" said Olivier doubtfully.

"I know his secret. Something I overheard." Ruby beckoned with her finger. Olivier bent over, and Ruby whispered something into her ear. A moment later Olivier jerked up as though someone had poked her in the rump with a thorny rose.

"Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

Now, if the drill sergeant had been more responsible, he would have observed that over the next few days Olivier and Ruby ventured into the jungle more often than was necessary or desired, and would have found such behaviour rather dubious. He either didn't notice or turned a blind eye, however, leaving Olivier with the impression that he wasn't exactly cut out to be a drill sergeant in the first place. He was able to follow orders from the higher-ups and conform to expected standards when he needed to, without a doubt, or he would surely have been demoted, but still he slacked off regularly and made no effort to conceal it.

Olivier, though disapproving, found this much to her advantage. A peek here and a glance there, and her trap was set.

On the Sunday of the fourth week, she was in high spirits and would have skipped around the courtyard had she been more of the skipping type. When night fell, she sneaked out of the castle by herself (the drill sergeant was probably drunk), strode briskly across the moonlit grass and disappeared through the trees. She was dressed in green and her hair was tucked into her cap for the sole purpose of camouflage. She continued to walk through the jungle with a confident stride, pausing here and there to squint through the darkness. Eventually she stopped at the base of a tree with a trunk full of knots and bumps, bent down and began to smear mud over her hands and face. Then she waited, crouched in the shadows like a predator about to pounce.

The ground was slippery and the air humid, making Olivier feel stickier with every passing second. The mud didn't help. An ant crawled up her leg from the prickly undergrowth, but she stayed motionless.

At long last, footsteps could be heard from far off. They were hurried footsteps, stumbling and irregular. Olivier tensed, barely trusting herself to breathe.

Then came a tremulous voice. "Where are you? Who are you? Give them back!"

A bulky human form appeared through the trees, silhouetted and distorted by the leaves and bushes obscuring it. Olivier leaned forward slightly and took a long look. It was unmistakably Pratt.

"Where are you?" he repeated. Olivier had never imagined someone like him could sound so desperate. But then again, he was trapped in a very desperate situation.

She took a deep breath and stood up. Pratt stumbled backwards, uttering a high-pitched scream. "Who are you? Come out of there! I swear I'll – I'll beat you up!"

"Relax," said Olivier. "You spineless, thick-skulled prat. Not so brave now that little miss Fat-lippier knows your secret, hm?"

"What? Is that you, Armstrong?"

"Oh? What happened to that wonderful nickname?"

"Shut up! What have you done? Where are they?"

"'They'?"

"Don't act stupid! I know you have them!"

"Ah – you couldn't possibly mean . . ." Olivier pulled out a bag full of small packets, ". . . these, could you?"

She couldn't see Pratt's reaction, but she guessed that the colour had drained from his face. "You really – how dare you –"

"How dare _I_?" Olivier spat. She had prepared herself for this moment. "Speak for yourself! To think these things are so important to you that you'd be willing to break about a hundred rules to get them back! Well, I suppose you've broken five times as many engaging in illicit activities, so it obviously doesn't matter. It's disgusting! Haven't you realised that? I'm surprised you got away with it – the drill sergeant must be even more indolent than I thought." She paused to allow the words to sink in. "Well? You want them back, don't you? Come and get them, then."

Without further ado, she turned and dashed in the other direction. The thick roots and slippery moss were no trouble, since she had planned this route beforehand – but for Pratt, it was another story. As she sprinted and leapt and vaulted, he tripped and staggered and fell. Olivier's cap was knocked off by a stray branch as she ran; she grabbed it before it fell into the mud and let her hair fly free. With Pratt far behind her, she scaled a tree and waited at the top.

Pratt was puffing and wheezing when he reached the tree. "I'm . . . serious . . . just – please . . ."

"Now, Pratt," said Olivier, "You do realise that I could tell the drill sergeant all about what you do in your spare time?"

Pratt recoiled in horror. "No – no – please don't! I'll – I won't do it anymore! I promise!"

"Really? Good. In that case, I'll dispose of them." She reached in her pocket, pulled out a pair of scissors and snipped Pratt's secret items to smithereens. Pratt could do nothing but watch, since he was out of breath and in any case could not possibly climb the tree fast enough to prevent Olivier from carrying out the task.

Olivier let go of the items and let them flutter to the ground. "I won't say anything. But if you get on my nerves even once . . . or even _think _about doing anything _without_ those things, which in the first place is utterly unthinkable . . ."

"I won't! I really won't!"

"I certainly hope not. Now get out of my sight, you repulsive idiot."

Pratt, looking very much like a scared rabbit, did as he was told. He didn't get very far, however – he was stopped by a horribly familiar voice.

"And what do you think you're doing, this late at night?"

It was the drill sergeant.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the evasiveness in this chapter. I didn't want to be too explicit, you see. **

**And yes, another cliffhanger! I don't think I've fabricated one of these for a while. **

**Once again, thanks for reading! XD**


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